


IN ANY OTHER WORLD

by spicyshimmy



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again written as a fill on the Dragon Age Kinkmeme. A different Anders finds himself in Garrett's bed one year after his mother's death, and it proves difficult to fill Justice's boots. <i>Anders could feel his heartbeat through his wrists. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	IN ANY OTHER WORLD

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this one was snagged from Mika's song of the same name and was put on repeat for way too long during the writing of this fic.
> 
> As you can see from the word count, this got a little...long...

Anders could feel his heartbeat through his wrists.

It was a silly thing to note, remarkable only because it was so different from what he was used to feeling: his heart pounding in his chest or at his temples. Strong hands held him in place, his pulse squeezed into fighting back, while his fingers flexed up against the headboard. And Garrett—

Garrett’s teeth dragged at his neck, nipping at the thick vein made stark when Anders threw back his head. He wriggled, eagerly, beneath Garrett’s weight, just to remind himself that it _was_ there—that it was _Garrett_ pinning him flat to the bed, without any hope of escape. As though he ever needed an escape to begin with.

As though Anders was stupid enough to flee from the one thing he’d been aching after for what felt like years now.

Well, it was possible. He’d indulged in even stupider behavior before, but none that went so opposite to his own immediate pleasure.

Garrett shifted to lean his weight on one elbow, his arm braced next to Anders’s head. There was something Anders couldn’t quite read in his expression, but at the moment, it wasn’t his most pressing concern. His mind was on Garrett’s hand as it traveled down his naked body, staff-callused thumb working his nipple into hardness. Anders moaned, shuddering up into the touch, but Garrett was already moving on, fingers stroking the length of his stomach, his hip.

Anders had been twisted and coaxed into panting by the time Garrett’s hand slipped between his legs. He spread his thighs as quickly as any of Madam Lusine’s finest, unhampered by trousers or sheets, hips bucking upward to Garrett’s palm, to its friction. Garrett paused, and Anders whined low in the back of his throat, seeking more out shamelessly. There was a warning parable about demanding too much, too quickly, getting _greedy_ with each gift—but at present, Anders couldn’t remember how it went.

He’d always been shameless, especially when it came to flirting. There was no reason why he should teach himself to shy away from it—it was, he liked to tell himself, what made him so irresistibly charming.

The quiet scrape of wood against wood broke through Anders’s needy desperation, and he realized Garrett was opening a drawer, searching for oils. The very idea that Garrett slept in a bed next to _oils_ sent a welcome shiver of heat down Anders’s spine. It was the unexpected details that lit his gut on fire. Always the _little_ things.

‘Oh, _Maker,_ yes,’ he muttered. His eyes fixed on Garrett’s fingers, index and middle, as he slid them slowly in and out of his mouth. Anders gasped, then groaned, turning his face against the pillow—any distraction to keep him from humping the man between his legs for his own satisfaction. Not exactly the best impression to make. But very, very tempting.

His head felt muzzy and light, as if he’d had too much to drink. Maybe he had. Maybe that was the mechanism upon which all this turned, the internal logic necessary to suspend Anders’s disbelief. He moved in miniscule, fitful motions, doing his best to be patient but finding it _impossible_ to hold still. When Garrett finally gripped his thigh with a strong hand to hold him steady, Anders whimpered, doing his best to sit up. He knew what was coming, and he wanted to watch it, _needed_ to see it happen.

Ah, need. Such a weighted word to use. But he felt it, and saw no reason to deny it. Not in the dark like this.

Garrett rubbed the oil in thoughtful, deliberate circles against a place that—as far as Anders was concerned—had been entirely _too_ neglected of late. What with one thing and another, traveling from Amaranthine to Kirkwall, all the refugees there, all the _templars…_ It was almost too much when Garrett pushed the first slick finger inside; Anders cried out and thrashed and, in direct contrast to his first and probably better instinct, pushed it deeper.

Garrett—good, reliable, wonderful, _clever_ Garrett—didn’t relent. There was never much chance to see him impatient; it was possible he looked this way now because he’d been waiting for this just as long as Anders had. He’d _certainly_ come prepared, but then, that was how he approached every challenge. Anders might have been no different, but Garrett was certainly making him feel different now, and that was what mattered.

He giggled blissfully when the second finger slid in, and moved, half on his back and half on his side, lifting his hips and stretching his legs out to wrap them around Garrett’s waist.

‘Please,’ he murmured. It felt almost silly to talk when Garrett was being so silent, but _something_ had to punctuate the rustling of the sheets and the slick, quiet thrusts of Garrett’s fingers in his ass. Anders always liked the sound of his own voice anyway, even at the most inappropriate of times. Maybe _especially_ then.

Without pause, Garrett obliged, sliding his fingers out and turning his focus on himself. Anders propped himself up on an elbow to watch Garrett spread the oil over his erection, the tip of it glistening as he knelt between Anders’s legs. He was dizzy, absurd, feeling as though he’d been struck by lightning and every inch of his skin had been charged with electric power.

That happened once, but it wasn’t here. They were back in Ferelden, and…

Garrett lunged forward with a growl, the only sound he’d made all night, flattening Anders back against the bed. He held him there by his shoulders, face buried in his neck.

Anders closed his eyes, enjoying the familiar feel of Garrett’s beard against his skin. Things happened this way when they stayed too late at the Hanged Man, when Anders had to bring Garrett home and pretend to his mother they hadn’t been drinking. It was a moment, singular and recognizable, of calm before the storm, and a welcome one at that. Anders muscles were worn-out and warm; he was greedy as always, already sore from too much, too fast, and wanting _more_ still, impossibly, without an end. Garrett thrust in, and Anders’s hips rocked with him. The keening noise that escaped his throat _was_ an embarrassment, but there was really nothing he could do about it. He scrabbled for purchase against Garrett’s broad back, wrapping his legs around his waist, heels digging in against firm muscle.

He’d had dreams like this before. Infuriatingly, he _always_ woke up, just before the good part.

But not this time.

*

Anders woke with a curl and a shiver and a little purr of delight, reveling in the memories only a _bad_ good dream could bring for just a few moments longer before opening his eyes. His lower back hurt; his thighs felt positively bruised; and he sensed a disturbance, a _dirtiness_ about him, that made his brow furrow. The sheets beneath him were tangled, which wasn’t exactly a surprise, especially not with…

His cheeks heated, and he pushed himself more deeply into the soft, loving embrace of an unfamiliar pillow. It smelled sweet, and also of his own sweat, and of something else, something he only half recognized. It also smelled of dog. Big, slobbering, drooling dog.

 _That_ was unexpected, and also very wrong. Anders would never allow a dog near his bed—dying Fereldan refugees were one thing, and wanted apostates another, but canines? Absolutely not.

Anders ran his fingers along the bedding—the soft, nearly _silky_ bedding, a coverlet that felt like it was made of velvet, heavy and warm. This wasn’t, he realized to the sound of a door creaking open, his room. It couldn’t be. The bed was far too nice.

It was also the bed from his dream. Which meant he hadn’t been dreaming, or he was dreaming still.

‘Good morning, messeres,’ someone said from the doorway. A high, reedy voice, pleasant enough at first, definitely pitched to impress, but there was something ingratiating about it, something Anders would have disliked instinctively even if it _hadn’t_ been interrupting his sleep. And if it hadn’t been a stranger talking to him from the doorway while he was in bed.

Someone’s bed. Not his own bed. That was another important part of this surreal little moment, disturbing enough that Anders wished to keep his eyes pointedly shut for the time being, unsure of what he’d see once he’d opened them.

He twisted, tangled himself further in the sheets, and froze when he felt a warm body next to his stretch and groan. A hand brushed over his shoulder. The pillow beneath his head moved.

‘Not right now, Bodahn, _thank you_ ,’ Garrett’s voice rumbled from somewhere to Anders’s left. ‘Don’t you recall the little chat we had just the other day about you not coming in at all when _Messere Anders_ is within?’

‘Oh, yes, Messere,’ this Bodahn fellow replied, ‘of _course_ I do. I’ll have you know I do remember everything! But it _is_ time for breakfast, and you know what your dear mother would say…’

Anders was too busy struggling with the confusion of the moment—what he was doing there, what _Garrett_ was doing there, what they were doing there together and if that was a bare leg pressed up against Anders’s beneath the covers—to notice, at least at first, the way the body next to him tensed, so brittle it was like he’d been frozen by a well-aimed ice blast.

‘…I’ll just be leaving, Messere,’ Bodahn concluded, out loud, and the door creaked shut again.

Anders decided at that point he was in the beginning stages of a full-out panic. Not a templars-knocking-down-the-door’ panic—that had a precedent, it had reason and consistency and also predictability, of a sort—but a where-in-the-flames-am-I-and-how-much-did-I-have-to-drink-last-night-and-Corff-must-be-stopped-before-he-strikes-again panic. Specific, but apt. It would all be solved easily enough; Garrett always solved everything. Like how to make it to Kirkwall from Amaranthine, how to get all the money they’d need, how to rescue Anders from a life of indentured servitude with a few snooty Grey Wardens who couldn’t handle the idea of an apostate in their midst, and all the rest. But for the moment, Anders only had Anders to confer with, so very much Anders inside his own head, and even with all that Anders, he still unfortunately had no idea what was happening.

Hence the panic.

Slowly, not really wanting to have to unless it was absolutely necessary, Anders cracked an eye open, just for a peek. He was met with a pile of red and gold pillows—they were in the Rose, then, which explained so many things—and a tuft of dark hair, and an expanse of bare, white, well-muscled shoulder, with a cluster of three dark beauty marks on that shoulder, just in front of Anders’s nose. The smell Anders didn’t recognize, something faintly electric and sheer and raw, was the skin right before him, so close Anders was almost brushing it with his mouth.

But from Garrett’s body language, tight and anxious and miserable, Anders already knew that he’d realized the mistake they’d made and was currently trying to think of a way to talk them both out of it.

Not to worry. Anders had so much experience with talking people—himself, others, strangers, friends, mortal enemies—out of things. If he could just stick to the first part, and not talk them back in again, this was bound to go well.

‘Ah,’ Anders said. ‘What _is_ Corff putting in the ale these days! Haha. They really should arrest him.’

With unexpected alacrity, Garrett moved, turning back to Anders with eyes that were far too bitter in the soft morning sunlight. ‘…You don’t remember last night?’ he asked. ‘Was it…’ Then, his jaw hardened. ‘ _Justice._ ’

‘You’re right,’ Anders agreed, ‘it _would_ be an injustice to forget something that— Something— I mean,’ he continued, very bravely, much braver than he usually was, ‘I remember…things. Most things. All the things we—’ He tapped his own temple knowingly, beneath a messy fall of hair. ‘Don’t, ah, don’t worry.’

Garrett’s gaze narrowed and he leaned forward, chin braced on the corner of his pillow. Anders had never before experienced this kind of scrutiny after sex. He wondered whether Garrett was feeling quite well. Then again, he’d never actually _had_ sex with Garrett, ever, not even once, not even accidentally or inebriated, so perhaps this was a common occurrence in Garrett’s world that Anders was simply unaware of, a sexual reaction of a disturbing nature.

If that was the case, it would explain why Garrett spent so many desolate nights alone. Not that Anders _noticed,_ but they were friendly, and Anders _was_ living with him. Friends paid attention to these sorts of small details. Especially when friends had interests that lay just beyond closed doors, inside the bedroom.

 _Fancy_ bedroom. But not Garrett’s bedroom either, obviously, because their house wasn’t nearly this fancy.

‘…Garrett?’ Anders finally asked, uncertain.

‘Have you been having more blackouts?’ Garrett asked. His tone was grave, and his expression so impossibly serious that it made Anders’s laughter die in his throat.

‘Only…aha…just that time in Amaranthine when you challenged us Wardens to a drinking contest. Although I still maintain passing out earned me the _moral_ victory over Nathaniel, who was sick all over the Warden Commander’s new boots.’

Garrett’s face darkened, and he turned away, flopping over onto his back. He let out a huff that seemed patently childish, clutching the blanket to his bare chest. ‘Forget it. You don’t have to make fun of me.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Anders said, uncertain whether he was supposed to reach after him or not.

What a _moody_ creature he was in the morning. Carver had more patience than Anders gave him credit for, dealing with _this_ on a daily basis, before anyone else had to put up with it. It just went to show you could never really know a man until you’d seen what he was like when he’d first woken up, rubbing bleary eyes and cursing the sunlight, hating the world.

Garrett’s eyes flicked in his direction. In Anders’s experience, they had always been warm; now they were hardened, cold as twin chips of amber in a statue’s head. What on earth had soured him so? It couldn’t have been the sex, since Anders’s memory of _that_ was far too clear to leave any room for misgivings.

Well. ‘Well!’ Anders said, forcefully cheery. He sat up in bed, pushing back the covers. As he’d suspected, he was _quite_ naked, but the room was warm enough that he didn’t find it an uncomfortable state. One of his boots was lodged half-beneath the bed, and the other had been kicked off dangerously near the hearth. His other clothes—coat, oversized shirt and trousers—were strewn across the floor in a kind of treasure hunt trail that led straight to the bed. Embarrassingly enough, his smallclothes were dangling from the handle of a large wardrobe. It seemed an odd and extraneous detail to have something like _that_ in one of the Rose’s rooms, but who was Anders to judge? ‘No sense sitting about, is there? It’s a new day and all that. I’ve never been one for lazing around. Ahaha, who am I kidding, I’m _always_ one for lazing around, but see, the ridiculousness of the statement _was_ the joke…’

He made a grab for his errant smallclothes, feeling it was best to start there. It was impossible to feel any amount of dignity without a stitch of clothing on. That much had always been true for Anders, at least, because he didn’t have the warrior’s physique necessary to carry _that_ kind of self-confidence. He wriggled quite elegantly to the end of the bed to hoist them on, managing to wince only minimally as he grazed a few bruises from the previous night.

As he stood to hoist them as gingerly as he could over the curve of his ass, Garrett moved forward, latching onto his wrist. Anders stumbled back, thighs grazing the mattress. He glanced over his shoulder in confusion, body a little too warm.

Garrett wasn’t looking at him. Or perhaps he _wouldn’t._ Either way, it was all too much to try and make sense of first thing in the morning. Anders raised his eyebrows, and coughed politely.

‘Something on your mind?’ he wondered.

Garrett grunted. Then, after what seemed like an enormously long amount of time, he shook his head.

‘Nothing. Just—wait for me? I’ll take you back to the clinic.’

‘Back where?’ Anders asked, but Garrett was already moving, rolling out of bed on his own side to search for his clothes. Anders took the opportunity to stare, admiring the shift of strong back muscles as Garrett sat up. He rotated one of his shoulders, like it had been giving him trouble, and Anders caught sight of what looked like an old scar across the bone.

Funny—he didn’t remember Garrett ever having a scar like that. Then again, the opportunities Anders had had to see him shirtless were few and far between. Usually he’d had to pretend like he wasn’t looking at all, which was _such_ a bore.

*

Anders was dressed before Garrett, so he’d decided to wait downstairs in the Rose until he’d finished. It just seemed polite, although if he was being perfectly honest, he was more than eager to escape the tension of the bedroom until he could sort out what exactly had happened last night.

Whatever it was, Garrett was acting like Anders had murdered his pet dog. No, no, he wasn’t allowed to call it that: _Mabari warhound_ was the proper term, apparently. And murdering him was Anders would never do, despite how he sometimes wished he could without being caught.

Unfortunately, leaving the room only made the feeling worse. As Anders stood on the second-floor landing, hands clutched tight around the banister, he couldn’t help but wonder two things. One, _where had Garrett brought him?_ since this certainly was not the Rose, and two _why did those chatty dwarves know his name?_

The bearded one seemed friendly enough, but the other one kept staring at him with vacant eyes, as though he was _waiting_ for something. A confession, or an outburst, or maybe even an explosion. It was rather unfriendly, like the dwarf saw right through him and knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. Which he wasn’t, since he didn’t even know where ‘there’ was.

Anders wished Garrett would hurry up and get dressed so they could leave.

‘Enchantment,’ the glassy-eyed dwarf told Anders meaningfully, pointing right at him. Or through him, more like.

‘…Yes,’ Anders replied, edging away slowly. He knew how to deal with tricky situations like this one: no sudden movements.

‘Yes, yes, my boy, that’s very good,’ the older dwarf, Bodahn, said. ‘But Messere Anders is quite tired, I’m sure, and it would be best not to bother him with that today.’ To Anders and under his breath, he added, ‘Is Messere Hawke feeling any better? I do believe I might have said something altogether unfortunate, you see—but you were there, and you know him best of anyone, after all…’

Anders was slightly mollified that at least this unfamiliar and uncharacteristically loquacious dwarf knew the truth about _that_ little personal matter. He tried not to preen, though his chest _did_ puff up a bit. ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘now that you mention it—Bodahn, was it?—now that you mention it, Bodahn, he _did_ seem a little out of sorts this morning.’ And, Anders thought privately, there were obviously reasons for that, but he didn’t want to get into them with a strange dwarf and an even stranger dwarf, redundant as both descriptions might have been. Dwarves, he’d found, always came in shades of strange or stranger.

‘I knew it,’ Bodahn sad, bowing his head sadly. ‘The anniversary of his poor mother…’

‘…The anniversary of his poor mother what?’ Anders asked. Leandra Hawke had always seemed gray and tight around the mouth—but then, she’d lost a husband _and_ a daughter during the Blight; ‘poor’ rather went without saying, in Anders’s opinion. She was also strong, and determined, and didn’t want anyone to pity her, so this dwarf wasn’t doing her any favors by drawing attention to all of it.

But, curious as the statement was, depressed as the dwarf had become, Garrett came suddenly out of the room and onto the landing, fully dressed, with—of all things—two daggers strapped to his back. ‘Let’s go,’ he said tensely, and strode off down the stairs, without waiting to see if Anders would follow.

*

Anders did follow; that was because he didn’t want to be left alone with the dwarves and their awkward conversation for a moment longer, and be eaten by the younger one or something equally ribald.

‘Dwarves,’ Anders said casually, peering around to try and get a better understanding of where he was. They were _near_ the Rose, at least, because they were in Hightown, but it was a part of Hightown Anders didn’t recognize, and it wasn’t in the red lantern district, either. They passed strangers who seemed to recognize Garrett, waving to him or calling out to him by name, but whenever Anders tried to catch their eyes for some kind of hint or clue, they pointedly looked the other way, not as though he didn’t exist, but as though they were doing their weather best to make him feel as though he didn’t. Anders could only employ the same technique, continue his conversation, and pretend it worked even half as well in reverse. ‘Have you noticed how they’re all so…weird? Sometimes I think I prefer them as unrepentant belchers, but then they actually belch on me, and it’s all _wet_ and the _smell_ and the _warmth_ and everything…and I wonder if a little change every now and then isn’t a good thing, only perhaps the blond one went just a little bit too far in the other direction. …Who is he, by the way? And, ah, how do you know him?’

‘Fine day, serah,’ a pretty young woman murmured, dropping into a curtsey, interrupting Anders’s subtle line of questioning.

‘Champion,’ a guard added, straightening in his clanking armor.

Anders frowned.

‘I’m sorry, Garrett,’ Anders said, as they descended the steps into the Hightown Market, heading in the vague direction of Darktown, ‘but you’ve certainly been getting around, haven’t you? Is _this_ why you’ve been so busy lately? Making friends with everyone in Hightown?’

‘I’m not the one who’s been busy,’ Garrett said, voice clipped and tart. Anders felt him looking his way and thought he saw a moment of uncertainty beneath the hard lines of his face and the bristles of his ample beard, but it was gone a moment later, probably nothing more than a trick of the light.

It was still haunting, but Anders had probably just hallucinated it. The whole morning felt like a hallucination, and anything was possible at this point.

Anders hurried to keep up with Garrett’s long, purposeful strides; he was moving swiftly, almost mercilessly, without the familiar jaunt to his step, and like he didn’t remember the way Anders’s muscles had stretched last night, like he didn’t care that Anders was delicate and had needs and also hadn’t been sleeping with anyone regularly in _quite_ some time.

Rather hard to do _that_ when fleeing Amaranthine, running from the Wardens, being protected by a handsome apostate and his quaint little family. Even harder to do it in Kirkwall—for pleasant the Rose might have been, but the Pearl it most certainly was _not_.

‘How about the weird one, though!’ Anders continued, still dutifully attempting to maintain the rapidly fading friendly atmosphere. He abhorred a silence, no matter how long, or even how short. ‘There’s something…not right with him, isn’t there?’

‘I’m beginning to think there’s something not right with _you_ ,’ Garrett said. Rather meanly, Anders thought. Not to mention how unnecessary it was.

So he _was_ more upset than he’d let on about this whole fiasco. Debacle. Well, technically, either word would suffice; both were painfully true. Anders scurried down the steps, feeling like a fool and a bastard and countless other names it would only depress him to call himself, searching ever hopefully for a way to make things right again.

‘That _is_ what they tell me,’ he said, achieving a steady voice and a bright, fake smile. _No sudden movements_ , he reminded himself, though it was harder to achieve that while walking. With any luck, he’d take a tumble down the steps, and die tragically at Garrett’s feet, and _then_ Garrett would feel sorry for being so mean to him. Everyone would.

Death fantasies so early in the morning. This _was_ shaping up to be an awful day.

Garrett hesitated, as though he could sense Anders thinking exactly that, and for a moment he looked contrite. But he didn’t apologize, and instead said, simply, ‘To your right.’

A moment later, Anders narrowly missed careening into an elf staggering up the steps with an armful of groceries, and Anders stuck closer to Garrett’s side the rest of the way down.

*

The minute they reached the so-called ‘clinic,’ Anders knew there was something wrong. _First_ off, it was in the heart of Darktown. He could scarcely breathe through the fetid warmth of the lingering chokedamp. It left a _taste_ in his mouth. In Anders’s opinion, air should never have a taste.

‘Do you need something to drink?’ Garrett asked, stiff demeanor softening somewhat.

‘I’m not so sure _that’s_ a good idea,’ Anders quipped. Because he was still, apparently, paying for drinking too much the night before. At least that was his working excuse for Garrett’s eccentricities this morning: bad hangover.

‘You keep smacking your lips,’ Garrett explained.

 _Oh._

Anders cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose. He resolved to try and keep his distaste less obvious, although that was somewhat more difficult once they entered the building itself, where dirty cots and broken crates littered the floorspace, some of them stained with blood or worse. The floor was just _ground_ , and the walls were simple stone, with no paint to keep them from crumbling. The air inside was even less like air, trapped and sticky and hot and deeply unwell. It smelled of illness and body odor. Anders immediately broke out into a cold sweat in protest. Why had Garrett brought him here?

If this was another one of his little ‘life lessons,’ whereupon he tried to make Anders into a less selfish person by showing him the dregs of Kirkwall society, then Garrett was in for yet another disappointment. Poor man. He tried with such _admirable_ effort, but he was doomed to failure every time.

Garrett seemed to hesitate when he saw that the place was empty. He reached up, toying with one of the daggers strapped to his back. Anders really was curious about those. Had he suddenly decided to take up hand-to-hand combat? Or was this a new disguise tactic, meant to throw off the templars? It was an interesting look, but ultimately Anders preferred his staff.

‘Quiet day, I guess,’ Garrett said, looking around, like he thought there might be a patient lurking behind one of the pillars.

‘…Yes,’ Anders said, slowly. He wondered whether this was Garrett’s very awkward way of telling him that he _had_ caught something from Isabela when she’d docked in Kirkwall last week.

If that was the case, Anders was going to kill him. And then shoot fireballs at the lovely _Captain_ Isabela, just for good measure.

But whoever the good healer was, he or she appeared to be out for the moment, leaving Anders to explore, tentatively, not wanting to catch anything by _touching_ something already smeared with disease. Further inspection led him to what appeared to be some manner of writing desk in the corner, absolutely buried in sheets of parchment that someone had scribbled all over. Anders gave one of them a cursory examination, then recoiled in distress. Evidently this wasn’t just a clinic, it was a repository for the criminally insane. The writings read like something a fanatic would nail to the doors of the chantry in Amaranthine. Anders didn’t exactly _disagree_ with some of the arguments they made—only most of them—but the phrasing was entirely too…passionate for his tastes.

A quick examination of the desk revealed a worn, loosely-bound notebook; flipping through the pages revealed what looked like a list of utterly vile ingredients for some kind of recipe, and a great deal of information about the more esoteric practices of the Tevinter Imperium.

What in the name of Andraste and the Maker went _on_ in this place? And for that matter, why did Garrett think it was relevant to _him_?

Garrett was the one who wanted to help _all_ mages. Thus far, the only mage Anders really had any deep feelings about helping was himself. Not very noble, but he hadn’t been out of the Circle for long—and was only recently out of the Wardens—and in his opinion it wasn’t _so_ wrong to want to live a little of his own life first, before he helped everyone else with living theirs.

There was some vital piece to this puzzle that Anders was missing; that much was evident. He couldn’t explain how he knew it, only that there was _something_ clawing at the back of his mind, whispering in the crevasses like darkspawn chatter. There was that same, vague sense of wrongness, like the heat and tension in the air before a summer storm. Or, more accurately, the heat and tension in the air before the flood of hurlocks came bursting through the floor.

The writing was familiar, but only half so. Anders couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was Garrett’s—Anders wondered if he’d ever seen Garrett’s handwriting, squinting down at a particularly ink-stained sheaf of parchment, the angry words of a madman housed upon the grain.

‘You should enjoy the time off,’ Garrett suggested. There was a tentative hopefulness in his voice that caught Anders by surprise, and he turned to look at him. ‘Since there isn’t anyone here, I mean. Get some sunlight, take a walk down by the docks. It isn’t good for you to be cramped down here in the dark all day long.’

‘I shouldn’t think it would be,’ Anders agreed readily. He was both relieved and bolstered by the sudden lack of hostility. Even if the truce was only half-hearted, he’d take it. ‘Do you know what it _smells like_ down here, Garrett? I think my whole life’s flashing before my eyes.’

The ghost of a smile flickered across Garrett’s face, hidden in his dark beard. ‘You’re just noticing that now?’

‘I was attempting to be polite,’ Anders said. He flipped through a few more pages of the notebook, still undeniably fascinated. It probably had something to do with the fact that the handwriting, in its clearer moments, was more and more resembling his own—now that he’d gotten past the subject matter, and could see the proverbial forest for the trees—and he couldn’t quite turn away from it. That, and he’d always wanted to learn more about the Imperium.

Maybe that was why Garrett had brought him here? The Warden Commander had mentioned a mad old hermit living in the Brecilian Forest who’d seemed like a lost Tevinter magister. Maybe the poor bastard had a brother here in Kirkwall. Maybe it was even the _same_ mad hermit, because Anders’s life worked in a series of fabulously implausible coincidences just like that. Like how he’d wound up sharing drinks one day at the Crown and Lion with a man who just so happened to be his Warden Commander’s cousin.

You couldn’t make a story like that up. And these things only ever happened to someone like Anders.

But if Garrett thought that information like this was going to convince him to be more active in their…whatever it was, _mage community_ , then he was grossly mistaken. All this place made Anders want to do was run, as fast as he could, in the opposite direction.

‘So,’ Garrett said, shoulders twitching together in a gesture of impatience. ‘I suppose I’d better get going. I’ll see you tonight if… Well. I’ll be at the Hanged Man, in any case.’

Anders rounded on him in horror. ‘You aren’t _leaving_ me here? Garrett, it’s _filthy._ And it smells terrible—I’d been keeping that to myself, but this really is too much.’

Garrett gave him an odd look. ‘You…don’t want to stay here?’ he asked.

‘Garrett,’ Anders said, ‘only a depraved lunatic would want to stay here.’

‘Well, yes,’ Garrett agreed. His brow knit in consternation, and he took a step forward. Then, unexpectedly, he lifted his hand to Anders’s brow, palm against skin, beneath the careless fall of his hair, the rough calluses on his hands unexpected yet half-remembered from the night before.

Anders, ridiculous as he always was, sighed happily, and let Garrett touch him.

‘You don’t feel warm,’ Garrett said a moment later.

‘ _You_ make me feel warm,’ Anders replied, before immediately wishing he hadn’t. It had just come out. Like most things Anders had done on impulse, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but less of one in retrospect.

‘…But you obviously have a fever,’ Garrett continued, frown growing even more intimidating. There were lines across his brow that were far more deeply etched than Anders remembered them being, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes less from laughter and more from strain. He wasn’t going gray, not yet, but he gave off the impression that he was about to at any moment, just start sprouting white hairs all over his perfect, dark beard.

Now Anders was frowning, too; he couldn’t help it. Garrett hadn’t removed his hand and it all felt very nice, but it also felt very wrong, and Anders pulled away, reaching down to the notebook, flipping to the front page. Another example of his life’s philosophy: good idea in the heat of the moment, bad idea the rest of the time.

There, written in absolutely unmistakable handwriting, was his own name.

 _Anders._

There were plenty of Anderses running about Ferelden and even the Free Marches. Anders knew that, and it was why he’d chosen the name for himself. Unremarkable, ultimately forgettable, just one in a much larger crowd. His deeds would stand out for him, or something like that, once he had some under his belt. But, as an apostate, it really was better to go by unnoticed.

So this Anders fellow, who was writing all sorts of abysmally deranged things while living in what really had to be the single dirtiest corner in Darktown, practically a glorified chamberpot, _with Anders’s handwriting_ , could just as easily have been someone else.

It certainly wasn’t _him_. These weren’t theories that Anders had ever espoused—not publicly, not even _out loud_ to _himself_.

Anders sat down on the nearest cot, then immediately yelped as the frame creaked, and jumped back up again. Garrett was staring at him like he’d lost his mind, which apparently he had, and Anders really wished he wouldn’t make it so obvious.

‘What’s happening?’ Garrett asked.

‘I wish _I_ knew!’ Anders replied. ‘One moment I’m just—minding my own business, drinking with my friends at the Hanged Man, same as every Wednesday night, talking about the good old days, Isabela showing everyone her breasts, and the next I’m in some strange bed with my best friend having _such fantastic sex_ , and it’s not as though I’m complaining, bad idea though it obviously is—but then there are dwarves and you’re wearing daggers and we’re in Darktown and apparently I’ve written thousands of pages on mage rights and their necessary freedom when, to be perfectly honest, I don’t even _like_ writing. I like talking,’ he added, taking a gulp of much-needed air. ‘It’s so much more personal, don’t you think?’

Garrett shook his head, something in his unrecognizably sharp eyes starting to coalesce. Not into understanding, unfortunately, but into wary unhappiness, guarded and tense as an alley cat in Denerim. Like he was used to things not making sense. Like he was used to them going dangerously wrong.

‘Say all that again, if you don’t mind,’ Garrett suggested. ‘Only a bit…slower, and less stark-raving _mad_ , this time.’

*

Anders was more than happy to oblige him. The more he talked, the more he was certain of himself, whereas the less he talked, the more he looked at the notebook in his hands, the scrolls littered everywhere, the words _mages_ and _templars_ and _maker_ all blurring together until they lost any potential meaning. Garrett listened, tight-lipped, while Anders explained things, and explained them again: that he and Garrett and Carver and Aveline came to Kirkwall with Leandra from Amaranthine after that pesky little siege was over, that Garrett worked there with his brother and the dangerous ginger who always made Anders very nervous in order to get the necessary coin for passage to Kirkwall, and admittance _into_ Kirkwall. They’d met up with Isabela a little while after docking, and Garrett was still looking into opportunities in the city, living in a decent place somewhere between Lowtown and Hightown, graciously allowing Anders to stay with their family, so long as he promised not to let Ser Pounce-a-lot bully the mabari.

There were times when Garrett looked ill just listening to him, and times when he became somewhat distant, but he never once lost focus. His eyes were practically burning through Anders’s head.

By the time he’d explained himself three times over, the impossible had actually occurred: Anders’s throat was sore from so much talking.

‘This has never happened before,’ Anders admitted, sitting miserably on a crate this time, hands clenching in the fabric of his coat over his thighs. He rubbed at the worn strips of leather, thumb against a metal buckle. It looked… _older_ than when he’d put it on yesterday. At least it wasn’t smellier.

‘Do you mean…thinking you’re someone completely different, or running out of things to say?’ Garrett asked.

‘Well, I did think I was an Orlesian barmaid, once,’ Anders said, feeling wretched, desperate for a spot of good humor. ‘But I was drinking what Oghren was drinking and… Well, it wasn’t so surprising I forgot myself for a while there. And _you_ rescued me.’

‘That never happened, Anders,’ Garrett said.

‘Oh,’ Anders whispered, and squinted down at the backs of his hands. ‘But… Are you… _It did!_ ’

‘I don’t understand,’ Garrett said flatly. ‘You said we came over with Carver and Aveline, but Carver died seven years ago. I _did_ come to Kirkwall with Aveline, but…we were with my mother and my _sister_ , Bethany. I didn’t meet you until I’d been in the city for about a year.’

There was a tear in the leather on one of Anders’s coat straps. He worried at it with his fingers, stretching the material and coaxing it wider. ‘You told me about Bethany. She was an apostate. The same as _you._ ’

He lifted his head meaningfully, as if willing Garrett to drop the charade. This had all been incredibly amusing—well no, actually it had been gut-wrenching and strange and was making him feel ill—but if this was another elaborate Hawke practical joke, some pre-Satinalia game that would make Anders want to kill him, then Garrett could stuff it. Carver could come out at any time, put him in a headlock and call him _magey_ , and then they’d all go and get drunk with Aveline at the Hanged Man. Maybe Isabela would be there with that incomprehensibly beardless dwarf Varric who seemed to run the place, and _they’d_ back up his story.

Garrett reached up, tugging his daggers smoothly from their sheaths. He stared at them for a moment, then held them out to Anders, pommel first.

‘You know a lot of apostates who carry these?’ he asked.

Surprised, Anders reached across the distance to take one of the proffered weapons, not exactly knowing how to hold it, feeling like he was being judged for the way the blade dangled from his fingers. Various nicks and marks scored the blade, and the braided cord wrapped around the pommel was soft and worn with use. It obviously wasn’t a knife worn for show. Garrett hefted the other one in his hand, holding it in a practiced motion. Without warning he flung it across the room; it flew straight as an arrow, finding its mark in a very small blood-stain that marred the far wall.

Definitely _not_ just for show, then.

Anders poked the wood of a nearby crate with the knife Garrett had given him, feeling moody and childish. The Garrett _he_ knew was a mage; that was part of why they’d gotten along so well, so fast. There had always been that understanding between them—though when Anders called it _a magical connection_ Garrett had laughed, and rightly so. And, when Anders had begun to feel as though there were Wardens among the order who had a problem with his status as an apostate, it was Garrett he’d confided in, because Garrett would be able to sympathize. He’d known instinctively that Garrett would be able identify, and he _had_ identified, and without thought for the consequences, he’d brought Anders to Kirkwall.

As an apostate, Garrett was the instrument of Anders’s freedom. Here, _apparently_ , Garrett was a man who threw daggers and scowled at Anders until he felt no more than two inches tall. But also, Garrett was someone who didn’t think twice about the fact that they’d woken up in bed together this morning. It was all _terribly_ alarming. Not least because Anders was beginning to get a picture of what some _other_ Anders might have been like, too, the one _this_ Garrett knew, judging by the colorful smells—and all too colorful writing—he’d found in this clinic.

‘Garrett,’ Anders said. He was boring a hole into the crate now, probably dulling Garrett’s blade in the process. Garrett’s _dagger._ The idea was so ridiculous that he almost wanted to laugh. As though Garrett had ever needed a weapon beyond his staff and his own mental acuity; the Garrett _Anders_ knew could rain fire down on his enemies as quickly as he could blink, tear an ogre apart with a swift, arcane blow.

But this wasn’t the Garrett he knew. That was the realization that Anders was coming to. Was such a thing even possible? Was he still dreaming? What had _been_ in Corff’s brew?

Garrett flinched, either at the sound of his name, or at Anders’s misuse of his dagger. He didn’t make a grab for it, though; in fact, he didn’t seem in any kind of rush to re-arm himself. ‘What?’

‘I don’t…’ Anders’s voice faltered, and he tried again. _Come on, Anders,_ he thought. He’d faced down psychotic broodmothers, Nathaniel Howe’s stunning _lack_ of a sense of humor, not to mention the smell of Oghren full-force in the morning. He’d been a hero at Vigil’s Keep, facing certain death, living to tell the tale. How bad could this be, compared to all that? It was only Garrett. He knew Garrett. He _liked_ him. But actually putting into words what he was starting to believe sounded crazier than all the rest combined. Anders swallowed. ‘I don’t think I belong here.’

‘Shit,’ Garrett said. He lifted a hand to rub his mouth, almost nervously. His palm against his beard made a pleasant scratching sound, but Anders couldn’t allow himself to be lulled into any false senses of security. ‘That doesn’t—‘

‘Make any sense?’ Anders wondered, a bit too quickly. ‘Yes, that’s rather what I was thinking too. Before I came to Kirkwall with… _not_ …you…I did some research into the place. Aside from being an absolute nest of templars—which, _wonderful_ choice there, very intelligent place for two apostates to travel—it apparently has a much richer lore of gruesome slave death and ancient ritual magic than anywhere else in Thedas. It was once a hub for the Imperium trade, you see. Certain researchers theorize that the Veil here is rather thin, as a consequence. _Theorize_ , listen to me, I sound like a scholar, what am I saying? I have a headache.’

Garrett watched him, though it was impossible to read his expression while he was covering half his face. Anders had the most unexpected urge to reach out to him, even for as simple a touch as Garrett had offered earlier, palm to brow, soothing. Except, of course, he’d only done that because he’d thought Anders was losing his mind with fever, and Garrett didn’t look feverish. Just unhappy.

‘You mentioned templars,’ Garrett said finally. His voice was strained, but calm. Once again, a man accustomed to dealing with the ludicrous. Just like the Garrett Anders knew, only with daggers.

‘…Yes,’ Anders said, slowly. ‘There are an awful lot of them here. Unless—unless that’s different too? In which case I might not mind being here as much as I thought! Aside from it being hideously wrong and probably some sort of dreadful affront to creation and the Maker, I mean.’

‘No, that’s not what I…’ Garrett sat up a little straighter, fixing Anders with a serious look. It was oddly like being on trial, although Anders hadn’t yet committed any crimes he was aware of. ‘There are templars here. How do you…feel about them?’

‘Is that a trick question?’ Anders asked.

‘Maybe,’ Garrett said. ‘I’m a tricky man. Answer it anyway.’

‘I feel like avoiding them so they don’t clap me in irons and take me to the Circle,’ Anders said. ‘Thwarting them when I may, watching their big thimble-shaped heads clank together in confusion. But mostly avoiding them. There: did I pass?’

‘You’re really _not_ …’ Garrett began, then shook his head, looking away. At last, all this seemed to be getting to him—or at least he was starting to treat it as more than an average morning in which he spoke, at length, to an Anders who refused on principle to make any sense.

But, considering the papers strewn about the clinic, which Anders was more and more convinced he _didn’t_ want to consider… That _was_ starting to seem normally abnormal. For _this_ Garrett, anyway.

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. When he finished and dropped his hand, he found Garrett staring at him again, wary, crouched like a cat about to pounce. He was acting as though he thought they were in the Fade and Anders was some form of desire demon about to pitch his really great deal.

Anders gulped.

‘Do you…want your knife back?’ he asked, letting it drop to the crate, holding up his hands to show he really meant no harm. This wasn’t an attack. He _really_ didn’t like Garrett giving him that calculated, wary look. _No sudden movements,_ he reminded himself for what had to be the hundredth time, feeling smaller than ever, feeling all too keenly the weight of his staff on his back.

‘Yes,’ Garrett said, and took it. He was moving slowly, too, still on the offensive-defensive, knees bent into a half crouch as he very carefully removed the dagger from Anders’s side. Anders saw a few scars on his fingers, split skin on his thumb, leather-dirty and leather-browned, and remembered the larger scar on his back, how unfamiliar it had seemed at the time.

‘So…’ Anders said, wincing as his voice cracked. He attempted to smile, which made _Garrett_ wince, and they were suddenly both engaged in a chain-reaction wince-off, not exactly the sort of competition Anders wanted to win, but as his skin prickled and his gut tightened, he realized he _was_ winning. It figured. Couldn’t beat anyone at a simple game of Diamondback, but when it came to this, he was an outright champion.

Garrett, meanwhile, had settled back down on the crate opposite him, still regarding him like a stranger. Which, in some ways, he was, and in other ways, he wasn’t. It made Anders’s heart hurt to see him like this, a tense, tight-muscled _dual-blade_ wielder who was trying, to little avail, to recognize him.

‘So,’ Garrett agreed at length. ‘You’re asking me to believe that you are Anders, but also… _not_ Anders?’

‘I think I am,’ Anders said. ‘Sounds a little funny, doesn’t it? You must think I’m touched in the head. Although considering all this—’ He waved one arm in the direction of the clinic, the collection of different types of dirt and the same types of rants, then immediately retracted his arm, wondering if that one gesture called too much attention to himself, ‘—you’re probably used to that! I mean, I mean, _really_ , I know I’m a little odd sometimes, depending on who you’re asking. Usually the humorless and the dreadfully boring don’t like me, although I’ve been known to make strikingly bad first impressions, but this…’ Anders heard his voice crack again. It _really_ had to stop doing that. He wasn’t thirteen anymore, and thank the Maker for that. ‘Well, I mean, imagine what you’d do if you woke up one morning and someone was telling you that you lived in Darktown—honestly, it’s called _Darktown_ , that should be the first indication you don’t belong there, at least not willingly—and you keep all these notes to yourself. They _are_ to myself, right? I don’t make… _other_ people read them?’

‘You try to,’ Garrett said. ‘It doesn’t usually work.’

‘Of course it doesn’t usually work!’ Anders said. He knew he was bordering on the hysterical now, but this wasn’t an outright threat he could face, like a broodmother or a horde of darkspawn or even a _rude drunk_ in a taproom somewhere, and it was all building up, and he was talking so much he kept forgetting to breathe in between words or even start and stop his sentences. ‘They’re—crazy! No one would read this, because it would make them _extremely uncomfortable_!’

‘ _Breathe_ , Anders,’ Garrett suggested, like he was used to dealing with this sort of person, this sort of Anders, one who forgot to breathe quite often. Anders stared, wild-eyed, at a pile of ink-splattered scrolls, more _templars_ and _mages_ and _Andraste_ , and he pulled in a ragged breath, then another, then a third, trying instead to focus on something familiar. The only thing he could see was Garrett’s face, which stood out to him amidst the chaos, but even that had subtle differences, the aforementioned lines, the worry, the shadows of mistrust and confusion giving way to a resolve, and an anger. Garrett’s jaw was tight. He re-sheathed his daggers, then stood, crossing to Anders’s side. ‘That better?’ he asked.

Anders nodded mutely.

‘Good,’ Garrett continued. ‘I want you tell me once more what you said—about Kirkwall and the Veil being thin. And more slowly this time, with less personal contribution.’

Anders struggled, then nodded again. ‘I’ll…try,’ he said. ‘But I can’t _promise_ anything.’

*

He did his best to explain everything that was going through his mind—what he’d read about Kirkwall, how he’d tried to convince Garrett that going there would be a terrible idea for so many reasons. Garrett listened, extremely patiently, but then he was obviously forced to listen to Anders talking at length about very dull things in his daily life, so that wasn’t too surprising. With someone like the Anders who lived in Darktown—who _willingly lived in Darktown_ —patience wasn’t simply a virtue. It was necessary.

After Anders attempted to organize his thoughts on Kirkwall and why it was a very, _very_ disturbing place in general, Garrett was silent for the most part, occasionally breaking that silence to murmur in agreement.

‘It’s not as though it was my first choice,’ he added, in a moment of what Anders was coming to discover was uncharacteristically forthright. ‘ _I_ wanted to go to Antiva.’

‘I’d burn in Antiva,’ Anders replied. ‘So much sun there. So many assassins. Besides, your mother wanted to come here.’

Garrett’s face tightened up again. ‘Yes,’ he said, the color disappearing from his voice. ‘I suppose she did want that.’

Anders hesitated too late, mouth already open to continue explaining his theories on the Bone Pit, the ones slightly less shallow than _the Bone Pit is a terrible name for a place, absolutely a terrible name, Garrett_. The expression on Garrett’s face took the wind out of his sails, however, and he deflated, dropping his hands to his side.

‘Ah,’ he said. He told himself he probably shouldn’t pry, but when had he ever listened to himself before? Garrett’s entire body seemed to indicate he should just continue, and not ask whatever he was about to ask, but Anders had always been the sort of person to read a room—quite well, in fact, down to all the fine print at the bottom—then immediately do what everyone wanted him _not_ to do. ‘Your mother… _About_ your mother. Is she sick?’

Garrett stared into the middle distance, as though he’d all of a sudden noticed something fascinating on the opposite wall. Another bloodstain, perhaps. His expression didn’t change; he didn’t wince _or_ scowl. Anders could see his chest rising and falling, steady and slow, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His profile remained static, blank and always handsome. He was silent for so long that Anders began to wonder if he’d even heard the question, if he’d gone into a trance, a fugue, if time had frozen. Then all at once his shoulders came forward, and he let out a sharp breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s dead.’

Anders felt the weight of that statement barrel into him like a physical blow, like one of _Garrett’s_ spells of invisible force, easily bowling him over when he stepped too close to the epicenter.

He’d only known Leandra Hawke for a little over a year, but she’d made quite an impression in that time. After all, she’d welcomed Anders into their lives in Amaranthine, never giving a second thought to the fact that he was an apostate. Again, in Kirkwall, she’d welcomed him with open arms, into their home this time, as though he really might allow himself to believe he belonged there.

While Anders didn’t remember all that much about his _own_ mother, he sometimes liked to imagine she might be a little bit like Leandra Hawke.

Anders moved without thinking, sliding closer to Garrett and leaning up against his side. He took Garrett’s hand, fingers resting tentatively on top of it. He traced the shape of a scar, then the cracked, dry swell of each of his knuckles. Garrett shivered, but didn’t pull away.

‘It was a year ago.’ Anders had never heard Garrett sound so empty, so drained of life. ‘One year, yesterday. She— A blood mage took her for his experiments. Made her into something else. I chased him down, and killed him, but I found him too late.’

 _The anniversary of his poor mother,_ Anders remembered that dwarf saying. _He’d_ known. He’d been aware of the root cause behind Garrett’s bad spirits, and Anders had had no idea, just blithely going along with things, more concerned about himself—he always was—than anyone else. That explained why Garrett had been so cold. Anders had just selfishly assumed it was about him.

The other Anders, deranged as he obviously was, would at least have known. He threaded his fingers through Garrett’s and squeezed, feeling stupid and guilty.

The sudden pressure seemed to snap Garrett out of his reverie; he glanced at Anders sidelong, his visible struggle with composure all-too present, something more private than Anders deserved to witness. He felt himself leaning closer, wanting desperately to be able to do something for this miserable version of a man he knew, he’d thought, so well. Evidently no one else realized how to take care of him here. Garrett’s expression softened imperceptibly. Anders could smell the metal on his skin, the leather of his armor. Unconsciously, he sucked in a breath.

He felt it the instant Garrett became uncomfortable. The shoulder Anders had been leaning his cheek against grew tight with sudden tension, and there was a fresh look of distanced uncertainty on Garrett’s face. Of course—he’d been seeking comfort from someone he knew, turning to something familiar in a time of difficulty. Anders wasn’t that someone. Or, he _was,_ but he wasn’t.

It was complicated, too complicated to think about anymore, but the right path was clear. Demonstrating a better ability to read the situation than he had thus far, Anders gracefully extricated himself, lifting his head and pulling back his hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lowering his head to hide the heat in his cheeks. It was unexpected. What sort of monster sat next to someone with a pounding heart after they’d just spoken about their mother’s tragic murder?

Anders, apparently. He was one of a kind. Except that now he wasn’t. No wonder Garrett clearly had so much trouble with him.

‘You didn’t know her,’ Garrett said, after a moment. That wasn’t what Anders had been apologizing for, but he didn’t have to know that.

‘I did,’ Anders said. ‘Or rather… I do.’ He took a deep breath, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. He wasn’t going to figure anything out sitting in a filthy clinic in Darktown while simultaneously making Garrett feel terrible about himself. As much fun as that _wasn’t_. ‘Do you think we should get out of here, Garrett? Because _I_ think breathing in all this noxious air can’t possibly be good for either of us. And since we’ve established quite clearly that I don’t belong here, I don’t see any reason to linger.’

Garrett nodded, standing with a gratitude even he found impossible to hide. Anders felt a selfish little flush of warmth to know he’d suggested the right thing; his gaze passed over the notebook he’d found, and the mess of pages still littering the desk.

‘I suppose I should take those with me,’ Anders murmured. He was reluctant to touch them, though he recognized he was being skittish for no reason. Was he really afraid that something arcane and terrible might happen to him? Something arcane and terrible already _had_ happened to him. If the other Anders had accidentally brushed up against something cursed in his research—and he’d been doing a _great_ deal of research, it seemed, on a series of esoteric subjects—then Anders would just have to hope it wasn’t hiding, buried beneath all the parchment.

Or that, if it was, the ritual act of touching it again might send things back to the way they were. Things couldn’t stay like this forever.

Could they?

Anders shivered.

‘Take them _with_ you,’ Garrett agreed, trying to follow the thread of Anders’s thought. Which was a difficult venture at best, since even Anders couldn’t have said what he was thinking. There was far too much emotion and horror getting in the way.

‘Take them with me where?’ Anders asked. He hated how needy he sounded, but there was no other way.

A tentative calm passed over Garrett’s features. ‘…You can stay with me.’

‘At your house?’ Anders asked. It all came back to him—the fancy room, the unfamiliar estate, the fact that there hadn’t been any other customers about, and the dwarven servants who knew Garrett personally. ‘That was… _your house?_ In _Hightown_?’

Garrett smiled faintly. It was barely there, but Anders _saw_ it. Garrett couldn’t hide that from Anders because Anders had very sharp eyes. ‘I’ve been in Kirkwall for seven years. Couldn’t stay in Lowtown forever.’

‘Some people do,’ Anders said.

‘Apparently, I’m not just ‘some people,’’ Garrett said, with a bitterness that reminded Anders of an old, improperly treated wound.

Anders chewed his lower lip, aware his face was twisting about awkwardly, not quite able to stop it. There was something he very much needed to ask, something he had the answer to already, but confirmation from Garrett was necessary before he could move on. The estate in Hightown, the very large bed, the dwarves who also knew _Anders_ personally, now that he thought about it—was it any wonder that they’d been acting so friendly? It would take a real idiot not to translate all the signs, and though Anders often pretended to be a real idiot, he liked to take comfort in knowing he actually wasn’t one. Even if it _would_ have made life so much easier sometimes.

‘Yes, Anders?’ Garrett asked, reading him a little too easily.

Anders jumped. ‘I…had another question,’ he said. ‘You see, where I’m from, things being what they are, stars not having aligned in the proper way, you—Garrett—my Garrett, I mean, even though he’s not technically _my_ Garrett… Well, actually, that’s what I’m saying, isn’t it? What I’m trying to say. That he isn’t _my_ Garrett.’

‘I see,’ Garrett said. His face was back to a blank; he wasn’t showing the same emotion as he had before, when the topic of conversation swung unexpectedly around to his mother, so close to the anniversary of her death, and left him raw, gutted, unable to bring up adequate defenses.

It was all right. Anders understood. He’d spent enough time deflecting and joking and smiling as though everything was fine when everything really wasn’t; this Garrett made sense, was _like_ him in key ways. No wonder they’d gotten along. In fact, this Garrett was more like him than this Anders seemed to be, and _that_ was one of the more disturbing realizations he’d had all day.

Maybe not _the_ most disturbing. But it was a very steep field.

‘Were you… _my_ Garrett?’ Anders asked. ‘Or, Anders’s Garrett, here in this Kirkwall? _Maker_ trying to talk about this is confusing.’

‘Yes,’ Garrett said without hesitation, so sure of himself that it almost knocked Anders off his feet. He felt…something in return, a little pinch of jealousy, not a very pretty emotion. But who was he jealous of? Himself? _That_ was weird. Had anyone ever been in such a preposterous situation?

‘So I thought,’ Anders murmured.

‘Yes,’ Garrett said again.

‘Where to, then?’ Anders asked, in order to avoid talking about it any longer. It wasn’t his usual way—to recognize _and_ act on self-preservation instincts to make a situation easier for everyone—but why not try new things?

‘The Hanged Man, I should think,’ Garrett replied. ‘I need a drink. And I’m guessing _you_ need one, too, after the morning we’ve had.’

‘At first I suspected Corff’s brew was behind all this, actually,’ Anders said. ‘You never know what that man puts into it. One day it’s eye of newt, the next stool of toad, and before you realize it he’s mixed up some kind of world-bending spell in those barrels of his.’

Garrett seemed surprised. ‘So you know the Hanged Man?’

‘Of course I do,’ Anders told him. ‘It’s good to know _some_ things _don’t_ change.’

*

‘Now,’ Garrett warned him—without much warning—on their way to the Hanged Man. ‘There might be…other people at the Hanged Man.’

‘Oh no— _people_?’ Anders said, panicking once more and reacting inappropriately to the situation at hand. That was better. Much more comfortable, and so like him he couldn’t question his own identity anymore. ‘At the _Hanged Man_?’

Garrett leveled a look his way, but it wasn’t accusatory—in fact, it bordered on amused. _Inappropriately_ amused, just like Anders was reacting inappropriately. An interesting detail. They _did_ have a lot in common. ‘People you know,’ Garrett explained, with a quirk to his mouth, a warmth to his voice. ‘Or, rather, people you’re _supposed_ to know, but might not.’

‘ _Ahh,_ ’ Anders said. ‘And they all…like me so much they’ll be thrown into despair once they realize the tragedy that’s befallen their precious Anders?’

Again, Garrett’s lips twitched. He cleared his throat, but it was obviously to hide overt laughter. ‘It’s probably only fair to tell you that you _haven’t_ made many friends over the past seven years,’ he continued, no longer looking at Anders as he spoke. He moved confidently through one of the complex Lowtown hexes that Anders always found himself hopelessly lost in while stumbling home pissed to the Void and back, and Anders followed him, neatly skipping over a late-afternoon drunk. ‘You’ve made quite a lot of enemies, though, from people who simply dislike you to people who might, in fact, want to kill you on sight.’

‘Oh, that’s me all over,’ Anders said, waving his hand dismissively, shaking off his own misgivings in the process. Never pleasant to hear just how much one was disliked. ‘Just the way things were in Amaranthine, anyway. And in the Circle before that. Multiple times. Though,’ he added, a little more seriously, ‘if this…me, as you said, _did_ try to make these friends of yours—ours?—no, definitely yours—read these…’ He patted his chest, where he’d tucked the notebook and some rolls of parchment earlier, ‘…then is it any wonder everyone hated him?’

‘I suppose it isn’t,’ Garrett admitted. ‘Sometimes I want—wanted—to kill you myself.’

‘ _Him_ , you mean,’ Anders said. ‘ _I_ certainly haven’t done anything wrong. _I’m_ charming.’

Garrett glanced at him over his shoulder, snatching his purse back expertly from a scrawny pickpocket as he passed by. ‘You just said people frequently want to kill you,’ he pointed out. ‘People don’t want to kill you when you’re charming.’

‘I also lie,’ Anders said. ‘Also frequently. Possibly all the time.’

‘Not all the time,’ Garrett said. ‘You didn’t lie to me before—about all this.’

‘But I _am_ charming all the time, so at least I have _that_ going for me.’ Anders took a deep breath as they stepped out into the Lowtown Bazaar; he recognized the area from many a promising afternoon and subsequently demeaning night, stumbling through the quiet stalls with Garrett on one side and Carver on the other, all three of them trying, to no avail, to prop one another up. ‘So, these—your—friends… They really don’t like me?’

‘No,’ Garrett said. ‘As funny as it would be not to inform you beforehand, I’m not, as you sometimes believe, a _complete_ ass.’

‘Terrible,’ Anders tutted. ‘You should really commit to something all the way or not at all, Garrett. So, who exactly are these people? They can’t have very good taste.’

‘There’s Varric,’ Garrett began.

‘Short dwarf, no beard, a forest of hair on his chest,’ Anders said. ‘Yes, I know him. Always beats me at cards. Helps Garrett out with business and whatnot, things I’m too drunk and too myself to pay much attention to.’

Garrett seemed startled, then relaxed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘And Isabela—’

‘Know _her_ a little too well, if you catch my meaning,’ Anders said with a wink. ‘Wish I could know her again sometime, too, but she’s been around the docks a few whirls since last we knocked boots together, and I’m not one for _incurable rashes._ ’

‘…Aveline?’ Garret asked.

‘Of course, _Aveline_ ,’ Anders said, starting to feel relieved. ‘How could I imagine a life without Aveline? Always grateful when she beats other people’s heads together, never grateful when she beats mine.’

Garrett snorted. ‘ _Tell_ me about it. What about Fenris?’

‘Who-ris?’ Anders asked.

‘Merrill?’ Anders shook his head. ‘Sebastian?’ Anders shrugged. ‘ _Huh,_ ’ Garrett concluded thoughtfully.

‘Three out of six,’ Anders said, hopefully. ‘That’s much better than I _usually_ do on unexpected oral exams.’

‘Better than I expected,’ Garrett admitted. ‘That improves our odds considerably. …In _fact…_ ’

A sly look overcame Garrett’s features, and something wicked sparkled in his eyes. It was an expression Anders recognized from the Garrett _he_ knew, and it made him catch his breath all the same.

‘I don’t like that look, Garrett,’ Anders said, which was in fact a lie. He very much liked that look.

‘No, it’s nothing serious,’ Garrett said. He nimbly stepped out of the way of some urchins playing a rough game of ball in the street—although when Anders looked closer, it seemed like their ball was merely a bit of old shoe leather. ‘I was just thinking… We might be able to have a bit of fun with this.’

‘Fun?’ Anders repeated, just as the other boot dropped. ‘Wait. Garrett. Do you mean confusing the living piss out of everyone nearest and dearest to you, just for the sheer joy of it?’

‘Anders,’ Garrett said. For maybe the first time since they’d met that morning, he didn’t cringe at the sound of the name on his own lips. ‘I’m going to confess something. The joys in my life have been few and far between of late; I can’t actually remember the last time I laughed. And those nearest and dearest? They take _pleasure_ in my agony. Often, they outright mock me for it!’

Anders could tell just by his tone of voice that Garrett was being somewhat facetious. It was a tack Anders himself had taken on many occasions, which made it easier to recognize in another man.

‘So you’re asking me to take part in your long-sought revenge?’ Anders asked, playing along. ‘I’ve always _wanted_ to be used as a tool for righteous vengeance, you know. Smite those who deserve a good smiting and all that. Call it a perverse fantasy; after all, _nobody’s_ perfect.’

Garrett’s expression flickered darkly for a moment, suggesting that Anders had yet again managed to say exactly the wrong thing. Fortunately, the moment passed before he had the chance to comment on it.

Anders _was_ going to have to ask about those looks eventually. His meager sense of self-preservation only carried him so far.

‘Let’s just see how it goes,’ Garrett said, speeding up so that he was walking a few steps ahead. ‘We’ll play it by ear—what do you say?’

Strangest offer Anders had ever been given. ‘I’m in,’ he said, choosing not to match Garrett’s pace. He needed the extra time to prepare for his role. Despite the implied ease of the situation, Anders had never been all that skilled at playing _himself._

*

The Hanged Man was, blessedly, just as Anders remembered it. Which meant that it still smelled of piss and stale vomit, there were bloodstains on the walls, and more dirt than actual _boards_ in the floor. Its inhabitants were almost as ripe as the Darktown clinic had been. When a pirate at the table nearest them lifted his arms to call a toast, Anders nearly fainted dead away.

Garrett hadn’t turned back toward him since that unfortunate little comment about vengeance, which Anders found rather unnecessarily mean, but this Garrett was offended by the most unexpected things. Anders had only been joking around, picking up on the lead that _Garrett himself_ had presented. It didn’t _really_ mean that Anders thought Garrett was the morally bankrupt sort of person who played tricks on his friends for his own personal amusement.

No, that was the sort of person _Anders_ was. Although to be fair, it did get awfully boring in the Circle Tower. A man had to do something to keep morale up. Becoming a morally bankrupt sort of person was often the only way.

Garrett made a beeline for the stairs, leaving Anders to trail behind him or get caught up in the fray. It was a very _charming_ fray, complete with shouting brutes, and one woman who had silver piercings in various soft, squishy parts of her face. She reminded Anders of Isabela, except without the class. He hoped it _wasn’t_ Isabela, but then, the Garrett in this world looked the same as the one Anders knew. There was no reason for the others to go and start looking all _different._

It was only when they reached the landing that Anders began to have some idea of where they were headed. He’d only been to Varric’s private rooms once, to drag Garrett out after a game of Wicked Grace that had lasted nearly two days, but if they were located in the same place in this world…

Good old reliable Varric. _He_ didn’t do strange things, like moving from Lowtown to Hightown with disconcerting speed.

A flutter of anxiety ran through Anders’s belly, and he caught onto Garrett at the elbow, tugging his arm.

‘Garrett—I don’t think I’m ready for this. Not the dwarf. Couldn’t we start with someone easier?’

‘I wouldn’t count Aveline as easier, and I didn’t see Isabela downstairs,’ Garrett said. That merciless monster. ‘Varric! You inside?’

‘Course I’m inside,’ someone called back through the door. It was muffled, and distant, but it did _sound_ like Varric. ‘Where else in the flames do you _think_ I’d be, Hawke?’

‘Any last words of encouragement?’ Anders asked, as Garrett reached for the knob. ‘You know, in for a copper, in for a sovereign…or something like that?’

Garrett paused. ‘Just have fun with it,’ he offered. He also winked, the sort of wink that left Anders breathless, and swung the door open without further to-do.

Not exactly the best inspirational speech Anders had ever been given—but then again, the Warden Commander was abnormally good at those, and he’d spoiled Anders for anyone else’s paltry attempts. The trouble was all the breathlessness; that would throw Anders off his usually impeccable game. Not to mention all the pressure. Anders squared his shoulders and followed Garrett inside.

‘Ah, Isabela,’ Garrett said. Anders was pleased that Isabela looked the same; anything else would have been a crime against one of the Maker’s best designs. And next to her was Varric, whom Anders recognized too. He didn’t have a dwarven beard, and he was wearing the same open-chest shirt Anders remembered making fun of the first time they’d been introduced, and all his chest-hair was in order, and that was comforting.

‘Took you long enough, Hawke,’ Isabela said, cocking a slanted brow. ‘Guess I don’t have to ask what _you_ two were doing. And here I thought moving in together _ended_ the romance. Silly me.’

‘Ah, and Fenris is here,’ Garrett said, which Anders realized was for his benefit. He followed Garrett’s gaze to a lanky elf—white hair, white vallasin, stunning, soulful, sorrowful green eyes, and an expression on the rest of his face that made Anders feel like something not even a dog would lick off a boot. The expression was made all the more intimidating by the copious amount of spiky armor the elf was wearing, like the rusted pikes that were so popular as architectural elements in Lowtown. Anders never could figure out who’d decided to use them, or why. A few sick minds, he’d always suspected, were behind Kirkwall’s tortured design. ‘Good of you to join us, Fenris.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Fenris said, his voice a deep rumble.

‘And you _too_ , Merrill,’ Garrett added; this was for another elf, smaller, paler, wearing so much green Anders just _knew_ she was Dalish. ‘My _goodness._ Next thing you know, Bethany will show up with Aveline _and_ Donnic in tow, and I’ll _know_ you’re all here because you’re worried about me or something equally silly.’

‘Worried?’ Varric asked, snorting. ‘Us? About the infamous Champion of Kirkwall? _Never._ ’

‘No idea what you’re talking about, Hawke,’ Isabela agreed. ‘How self-centered of you. _Really._ ’

‘But before he came, you all said—’ Merrill began, then sat bolt upright; Anders knew the look well, because he’d worn it so many times himself.

Someone had kicked her under the table.

‘Hn,’ Fenris contributed. Not much of a contribution at all, but sometimes, silence spoke volumes. At least for other people. Anders never bothered testing the theory for himself.

Already he was getting the picture: Varric was Varric, indescribable and incomparable as always; Isabela, too, seemed to be her old self, and thank the Maker for that; Merrill was all rainbows and daisies and squirrels and prancing through fields and ruining surprise parties and whatever else it was the Dalish did with their free time when they weren’t communing directly with nature and hating all shemlens; and Fenris was the quiet one.

The quiet, _angry_ one, Anders amended, as Fenris shot him another glowering look, the sort that made Anders rub at the stubble on his cheeks nervously just to loosen up his face, keep it from freezing in terror, that sort of thing.

‘Hello, Hawke,’ Aveline said from behind them. ‘Care to move out of the doorway so others can come in?’

‘And _Aveline_ ,’ Garrett said, shaking his head. He stepped out of the way, tugging Anders with him; Anders was only too glad to follow his lead, taking the seat next to him and, with a burst of inspired improvisation, scooting closer to his side. ‘Well, isn’t all _this_ cozy. _Everyone’s_ here to not worry about me.’

‘You know how this group feels about Diamondback,’ Varric said. ‘Can’t keep ‘em away for anything when they find out there’s gonna be a game of Diamondback at the Hanged Man.’

‘Aveline hates Diamondback, Merrill always loses, Fenris prefers Wicked Grace, and _you_ don’t like playing with such incompetents, Varric,’ Garrett pointed out, ruthlessly refusing to let them off the hook. ‘If only you’d be this dedicated on my birthday, I might actually feel loved.’

‘Here’s an idea,’ Isabela suggested. ‘Let’s everyone stop this nonsense and let Varric deal us in, hm?’

‘Oh, Isabela,’ Garrett said. ‘If it wasn’t for Anders…’

‘I’ve been known to enjoy my fair share of foursomes,’ Isabela murmured, smirking from Garrett to Anders to Garrett again. ‘You know where to find me.’

Fenris made a noise like choking, possibly like dying, and Anders realized everyone was looking to _him_ for some kind of authentic reaction.

‘But there’s only…three of us,’ Anders said, counting himself, Garrett, and then Isabela in a distinctly _triangular_ pattern. ‘Unless I’m missing something.’

‘Oh, you silly goose,’ Isabela said. ‘I’m talking about _Justice._ I could use a good smiting, these days. I’ve been _very_ bad.’

‘You know, I was just talking to Garrett about that on the way here,’ Anders said. He took a chance, and put his hand on Garrett’s arm—just to get his attention, of course. ‘Weren’t we just _talking_ about smiting?’

Garrett picked up the cards Varric had dealt him. He stared at them intently, then grunted a wordless response.

‘ _Not_ big and handsome’s favorite topic, I take it,’ Isabela said. She offered Anders a wink, which made him feel quite good about himself indeed.

In fact, it gave him the confidence to pick up his cards. As usual, the hand he’d been dealt was middling-to-fair. Anders had no doubt he’d be able to turn it into utterly terrible in record time, as always. He just had to hope that the Anders everyone was used to wasn’t an insanely-gifted card wizard.

Somehow, despite everything that had happened to him today, _that_ was what seemed most unbelievable.

‘Have we finally decided to get down to the business of playing now?’ Fenris asked. It seemed to be a rhetorical question, since he’d already discarded two of the cards in his hand, and drew in two more.

‘Indeed,’ Aveline commented. ‘ _Some_ of us have jobs to get back to.’

‘Me in particular,’ Anders said, bravely taking in the room. Merrill was staring at what she’d been dealt like her cards held the secret to eternal life, pink tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. It was rather endearing, in a frolicking woodland creatures sort of way, but Anders wasn’t fooled at all. All Dalish women were _insane._ The more adorable they seemed, the more dangerous they were. Anders knew this because he’d had personal experience with them. Aveline, meanwhile, looked roughly the same: tense, serious, watchful of her hand. The last time Anders had played a game of Diamondback with her, she’d overturned the table and it’d smacked Carver right in the chin. He’d been unconscious until morning, and the ensuing bruise had made his enormous jaw look _even more_ swollen than usual. It had been a great night, all things considered. Finally, that Fenris fellow looked largely unpleasant. Anders couldn’t imagine what Garrett saw in him, except _maybe_ as hired muscle. Garrett had always been soft on charity cases. …At least, Anders _thought_ he had been.

It was very confusing, this business of alternate worlds.

Isabela and Varric, thankfully, remained twin beacons of stability in a frightening new land. Which was to say they were both fiercely cheating, with varying degrees of subtlety.

Aveline raised her eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked.

‘Well,’ Anders began, rearranging his cards in his hands. He felt Garrett’s leg brush his beneath the table; it seemed like a gesture of encouragement, but Anders had to fight not to lose his concentration. ‘I _really_ do the most important work of any of you, don’t I? Healing people, making their lives inestimably better…it’s almost the _Maker’s_ work.’

Varric snorted. Fenris glowered. Anders felt heartened, and continued.

‘I mean, Isabela steals from people—‘

‘ _Hey,_ ’ Isabela interjected.

‘Aveline shouts at people for a living,’ Anders continued, completely undaunted, ‘Merrill does…whatever it is she does with the sunshine and the birds chirping all the time; Fenris looks very mean until his enemies shrivel up and collapse from the inside out, I can only imagine. Maker only knows _what_ Varric does in here, it’s downright suspicious for a dwarf to spend so much time so far from the ground.’ He paused only to take a breath. Garrett’s boot had settled on top of his foot, but he hadn’t pressed down yet. ‘That leaves only Sebastian. Where _is_ Sebastian, anyway? That charming rogue.’

Isabela let out a giggle. The gold stud in her lip was wiggling; it took Anders a minute to realize she was poking it with her tongue. ‘Ooh, you’re _fun_ today. Here I was starting to worry Justice wasn’t going to let you out to play anymore.’

‘Isabela,’ Garrett warned.

That was the second time she’d mentioned Justice, Anders realized. He’d written the first off as a fluke; perhaps he’d misheard, or maybe he’d mentioned Justice in one of his drunker moments recanting his Warden stories.

Judging by the icy pall of tension that had just descended over the room, however, it was more than that. Anders was missing something. Again.

‘Didn’t realize you and Choir boy were so close, Blondie,’ Varric said, always the first to dispense with an uncomfortable silence. In fact, Anders sometimes believed Varric didn’t know what being uncomfortable was like. ‘Last time I saw the pair of you in the same place, you were at each other’s throats about the Grand Cleric.’

‘Who, me and Sebastian?’ Anders asked. Garrett _was_ stepping on his foot now, grinding his heel into Anders’s toes, but he chose to ignore it. ‘ _Never._ We’re the closest of friends. He’s like the brother I never had. Or the brother I never knew I had, at least. One never can be sure when they’re dragged off to the Circle at such a _young_ age.’

‘Yes, because it’s far better to let children with no concept of how to control their murderous gifts run rampant,’ Fenris said.

‘Oh,’ Anders said, coming to a realization. ‘I don’t _like_ you.’

‘And _I_ have never liked _you_ ,’ Fenris agreed.

That made a lot of sense; Anders had no idea what he’d done to the elf, since after all he was so very charming, but this Fenris fellow, handsome or not, had a bit of a personality disorder. And what with his obvious feelings on mages and the Circle, and the other Anders’s obvious feelings about manifestos trying to prove the opposite stance was the moral high-ground, it was all too clear why they didn’t get along.

‘Ahhh,’ Anders said, tossing out two of his cards and pulling in two new ones that were even more abysmal. That made a lot of sense, too. Anders was getting the hang of being here, amongst all these friendly people and then of course Fenris, not-friendly Fenris, slowly drowning under the simplistic yet nonetheless infuriatingly elusive rules of Diamondback, while Garrett attempted to break his foot.

After a moment of silence, Anders realized that Varric was staring at him; the others, in stark contrast, were all doing their best _not_ to look in his direction.

‘Are you feeling all right, Blondie?’ Varric asked. ‘I mean, other than the usual, which is a rat’s hair shy of downright crazy.’

‘Oh,’ Anders said. ‘Have I— Should I take out some of my notes and read them to you in a very serious voice? I have all sorts of feelings,’ he added. ‘Feelings about…mages. And templars! And the _Maker._ And how all those things tie together and how you should really reconsider—’

‘No!’ everyone said, practically at the same time, so loud Anders felt the table—no, the very _room_ —shake.

‘I take it back,’ Varric added, though he was still looking, keen and narrow, trying to figure out the parts of this that didn’t make sense. The joke was on him, though, because even Anders hadn’t figured them out yet, and he planned on enjoying this state of knowing even the slightest bit more than everyone else did for as long as he could make it last. At least until Varric cottoned on that something was very wrong, because if anyone could conjure up a story like this one out of thin air, it was definitely Varric.

Garrett was still stamping on his foot. Anders kicked back neatly, engaging in a particularly violent flirtation underneath the table; all in all, it was almost alluring, which meant Anders was the one to surrender first.

‘You don’t have to be so mean about it,’ he told everyone at the table. ‘I _would_ have done funny voices to make it all more amusing, but now that you’ve cruelly turned me down I don’t think I will.’ Another stomp; Anders swiftly moved his foot out of range, since he’d been expecting it, and smiled beatifically as Garrett hissed in pain when his heel connected with the floor.

‘I do like funny voices,’ Merrill said, attention pulled away from her cards at last. ‘But…I don’t very much like your manifesto, Anders, I’m sorry to say it.’

‘It _is_ the most boring thing,’ Isabela agreed, covering a yawn with the palm of her hand.

‘Well _that’s_ all wrong,’ Anders said. ‘Something like this shouldn’t inspire _boredom_ , it should inspire outright disgust.’

‘It does in _some_ ,’ Fenris told him.

‘You _sure_ he’s feeling all right, Hawke?’ Varric asked.

‘I hit my head on a low beam this morning, actually,’ Anders said.

‘ _Kinky,_ ’ Isabela purred. ‘Hawke, you _have_ been holding out on me.’

‘Is this something I don’t understand again?’ Merrill asked.

‘None of these distraction tactics are appreciated,’ Aveline warned. ‘I don’t much like losing when the competitors play fair, but _this_ is hardly abiding by the rules.’

‘In Diamondback, one makes his own rules,’ Fenris said. He almost looked like he was about to smile, but then he didn’t. ‘…Your husband taught me that.’

‘Your husband?’ Anders asked, and Garrett stomped on him again, and he laughed loudly, and said, not a question this time, ‘Your husband! Yes! How is he? Your husband? Well and husband-like?’

‘…Donnic is fine,’ Aveline replied, with a baffled look.

The conversation was moving even faster than Varric could deal, and Anders was loving every second of it, even though he knew, at any moment, he was going to walk right into a trap and the game would end. Then there would be questions, and anger, probably; accusations, cranky Fenris swinging his giant broadsword. That was how some of Anders’s fondest memories came to an end, and he practically beamed as he picked up the lowest cards yet, effectively cutting him out of the next four rounds.

‘I’ve lost!’ he exclaimed, for everyone’s benefit. ‘May I have some whiskey now? I’d _really_ like to get drunk.’

Silence descended over the room. Anders blinked. Garrett bent over his cards, shoulders shaking; Anders realized that he was laughing a moment later, and was both self-satisfied and affronted at the same time. Varric rubbed his thumb against his broad jaw and his pale stubble, and Isabela poked at her lip stud with one eyebrow raised and the other, somehow, lowered, and Aveline folded her arms over her chest and looked very much like a phalanx, if a phalanx could be only one person.

‘All right,’ Varric said finally, breaking the silence. ‘What in Andraste’s big knocking tits is going on here?’

‘Anders told you,’ Garrett replied lightly. ‘He hit his head on a beam this morning. The lump is enormous, the size of an egg. I think he knocked Justice right out through his ears.’

Varric snorted. ‘If only.’

Anders tugged at his earlobe. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Why are we all talking about Justice? Is Justice he—ow! I mean, Justice! Justice is here! …Justice is here?’

‘You fucked so hard he forgot everything?’ Isabela asked, appreciatively. ‘You _are_ rough, Hawke. I _like_ that in a man.’

‘Why don’t _you_ ,’ Anders said, possibly the very last second he’d be able to get away with it before the whole façade was blown clean away, ‘stop flirting _so much_ with _my_ lover, Isabela.’

‘Well, I like _that,_ ’ Isabela said, playing at looking injured. ‘As though _I’m_ the one you need to worry about.’

‘Beg pardon?’ Anders asked. There was a wild, sinking feeling in his stomach.

‘You mean to say you’ve forgotten about your _great rival?_ ’ Isabela purred. When Anders’s face didn’t transform with sudden realization—and indeed, when he continued to look nothing more than positively confused—she let out a huff. ‘Oh balls. Forget it, then. It’s no fun teasing him if he doesn’t know what’s what.’

‘And what exactly _is_ what?’ Aveline demanded. She looked from Garrett to Anders, setting down her cards in a neat pile. ‘One of you had best explain what’s going on, here.’

‘Justice isn’t _really_ gone, is he?’ Merrill trilled, her eyes wide as saucers. ‘I thought…that wasn’t possible. I mean, that _isn’t_ possible. I know it isn’t.’

‘Well,’ Garrett said. He glanced sideways toward Anders. Anders put his hand on his leg under the table—for reassurance.

‘Might as well fold, Hawke,’ Varric said. He even threw in his cards, making a symbolic gesture. ‘Don’t feel bad about it. Even the Champion can’t keep a secret with this group.’

‘Why _does_ everyone keep calling you the Champion?’ Anders wondered. Now that they were cornered, he was determined to go out in a blaze.

‘It’s a long story,’ Garrett began.

‘Which we’ll get to once _you’ve_ told _yours,_ ’ Aveline said, firmly.

*

Somehow, it was easier breaking the news to a room full of people than it had been to Garrett alone. That was possibly because Anders had Garrett on his side this time. He stepped in to help when Anders’s details became muddied and vague, explaining what they’d theorized about the tearing of the Veil, and Kirkwall’s propensity for unusual happenings, and so on and so forth. Also, he allowed Anders’s hand to remain on his leg, even brushing their knuckles together when he paused to clear his throat.

Unexpectedly, it was Merrill who believed them first. She recited all manner of _incredibly_ dull Dalish lore about Sundermount, explaining that the place had become known far and wide simply for its wildly inexplicable events, and then she told a story about the Dread Wolf, and then another story about the Dread Wolf, and it was all very Dalish of her.

‘You’d think this sort of thing would be more widely known,’ Isabela observed. ‘They could put up posters. _Don’t dock here, haunted waters._ That sort of thing. I’d have never come to port, if I’d known.’

‘You didn’t have a choice,’ Fenris said. He’d listened to Anders and Garrett’s story, smoldering with silent hatred throughout. Now he moved, sitting up in his chair and cracking his neck. Maker, but that was an incredibly long neck. ‘So we’re meant to believe that this… _mage_ is not only not an abomination, but he never _has_ been?’

‘What was that?’ Anders asked, with sudden alarm. ‘Aboma-what-now?’

‘Fenris,’ Garrett growled, and, ‘…Later,’ he told Anders.

‘I should think _so,_ ’ Anders said. He puffed up his chest like a swallow, expertly hiding the sudden raw terror that had crept into his mind. There was no mistaking what Fenris had said. Why wouldn’t that have been the _first_ thing Garrett told him?

Moreover, if the other Anders had been an abomination, then why was he still alive? Why had no one killed him?

Charming only took a man so far. It never took him as far as ‘abomination.’

‘I have to admit, I find it all a little difficult to believe, myself,’ Varric said. He leaned back in his chair, the leather of his coat and the joints of the wood creaking. The angle made him look rather small, but his head was still enormous. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Hawke, I like a good story as much as the next guy, but… Another Blondie just pops through the Veil? And he’s conveniently replacing the one we’ve got? It all seems a little fishy, and a _lot_ like one of your practical jokes.’

‘Believe me,’ Garrett said, ‘I know how it sounds.’

‘Do you think there’s another _me_ in this world of his?’ Isabela wondered. Her countenance grew dreamy, the way Anders had seen her get while she contemplated a nice, stiff masthead. ‘I’d like to meet her.’

‘I can test him,’ Merrill piped up. She seemed to balk when everyone turned their heads toward her, but then she lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. ‘Well, I _can._ For demonic—or spiritual—possession. It’d be the simplest way to tell whether he’s lying, wouldn’t it? If Justice is there, then he’s made it all up, and we can all be very angry with Hawke! And if he isn’t...’

She trailed off. No one jumped to fill in the blank. Apparently, no one in the room knew what to say, for once in their lives, if Justice wasn’t.

Anders still didn’t even know what that meant. _If Justice wasn’t_ … If he wasn’t _what_? Here? Because he _wasn’t_ here, and he also wasn’t the type who played hiding games. The smell of his possessed, slowly decaying corpse all too often gave his location away.

‘You all doubt _my_ word, too?’ Garrett asked.

‘No offense, Hawke,’ Varric said. His eyes flicked to Anders, then back again. ‘But you’ve never been the most _rational_ of people when it comes to Blondie.’

Anders’s heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘He certainly talks like Anders,’ Merrill said. Then, without warning, she hefted her staff and hurled some kind of great thorny vine toward him, because Anders’s life just worked that way.

Anders fell out of his chair. It was what any highly trained apostate would do. The nature spell shot over his head, and he clutched at Garrett’s knee, feeling his pulse practically exploding through his chest.

‘Dalish women are _always_ attacking me,’ he moaned. ‘Why are Dalish women _like_ this? It must be all the trees—the trees are making them evil. Did you see that, Garrett?’

‘I did,’ Garrett said, from above the table. ‘What does it mean, Merrill?’

‘Well, he didn’t turn all glowy or start accusing me of being an affront to all that’s good and sane in the world,’ Merrill said. ‘I’d say that’s as fair a sign as any.’

Anders rubbed at his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow, attempting to use Garrett as a shield between himself and whatever nature spell Merrill decided to toss his way next. ‘No wonder I don’t get along with most of you,’ he muttered, as Garrett helped him back to his feet and into his chair. ‘You’re all _crazy._ ’

‘It could just as well be a trick and you _know_ it,’ Fenris said, ignoring the chance to apologize for his complicit behavior in what was clearly an attempted murder. ‘When one takes on a _demon_ he can no longer be trusted by anyone.’

‘Except by me,’ Garrett pointed out lightly, with humor and ease that cut like a knife. Far better than Anders’s usual tactic of sulking to make people feel bad—this Garrett needed no shield to protect himself, and wielded his _words_ as though they _were_ his daggers.

‘The _rules_ , as they stand, do not apply to _him_ ,’ Fenris said, though he twitched where he was now standing, unable to keep still. Anders wondered if it was because Garrett was making him nervous, then realized it might just as easily have been his way. But _Maker_ , didn’t that sort of constant fidgeting make the others anxious? ‘And well we know it.’

‘I’m very trustworthy, _actually_ ,’ Anders said, feeling the need to defend himself because, apparently, no one else would. ‘And if you don’t trust me, presumably you should trust _Garrett_ , who is, after all, _the_ Champion. You don’t get to be Champion of Kirkwall by just lying your way to the top, now do you?’

There was another silence, this one potentially longer than the first, that made Anders realize Garrett had indeed become Champion of Kirkwall by lying his way to the top. Probably not by _just_ lying but by _mostly_ lying; Garrett cleared his throat and Isabela looked disbelieving, and also like she wanted to laugh, and Varric—of all the things—indulged in a moment of pure concern, the deepest emotion Anders had ever seen on his usually casual face, before it passed like a tell that had never really existed in the first place.

Anders felt breathless—from the spell, from the attempted murder, from his own panic, from all the _ideas_ he was starting to get from all the _clues_ these not-quite-friends were dropping.

‘All right, look,’ he said, ‘we’re all still reeling from the shock—and believe me, no one is more shocked than I am, and then after me Garrett, and _after_ Garrett, all of you, just so we all know where we stand—but I still don’t know why you all know Justice since it’s _awfully_ hard to bring possessed corpses on ships these days, especially for the longer journeys, what with the smell and all. And I’m _really_ hoping it has nothing to do with Fenris over there talking about deals with demons, but let’s all rip off this poultice and tell me everything I need to know about—well, about Anders.’ He paused. He blinked. No one volunteered because no one wanted to volunteer, and Anders couldn’t blame them. He tried to imagine being in their boots—or, in the elves’ case, in their bare feet—and knew he’d be examining a dried flake of vomit on the wall right about now, desperate to be anywhere other than this conversation. He might even have jumped out a window in order to avoid participating a moment longer in so fraught a scene. But Anders’s current desperation, the need to _know things_ , was overriding his usual instincts to avoid, at all costs, serious interaction. He forged on, a brave, lone arcane warrior, in the midst of an unexpected harrowing. ‘I mean, it just doesn’t seem very fair that _you_ lot, who hate me—him— _us_ —Maker I hate this!—should know so much more than I do,’ he concluded, rather lamely, like he was begging them.

But he was begging them. And they knew that. And no one wanted to take pity.

It wasn’t just that they weren’t friends. No one here even tolerated him, like Anders was used to being merely tolerated. Or rather their dislike of him was so strong it even overrode their obvious affections for Garrett.

And Garrett, being the _other_ Anders’s lover, simply had to weather it. Constantly, apparently, while other Anders read from his manifesto and continued, quite hopelessly, to alienate everyone.

The picture it was painting was all very bleak. Anders swallowed and his tongue felt thick in his throat; he realized only when Garrett covered his hand that he was clutching the edge of the table, knuckles white, wood gouged by his nails.

‘Not all of us _hate_ you, Blondie,’ Varric began, reasonable and a little careful, too.

‘Yes,’ Fenris snarled. ‘ _Hawke_ does not hate you.’

‘I don’t _hate_ you,’ Isabela said. ‘But you can be…what’s the word…’

‘Annoying?’ Merrill supplied helpfully. ‘Judgmental? Single-minded? Inflexible? Stubborn? Downright cruel?’

 _That isn’t me,_ Anders thought helplessly. _It really isn’t._ He had no reason to want to prove himself to people. This had all been fun and games, a way to make a terrible situation a little more bearable, but he wasn’t staying here, _couldn’t_ stay here, as much as it looked and smelled like Kirkwall.

‘I don’t like being hated,’ Anders said, in a very small voice.

Garrett squeezed his hand. ‘The way we understand it,’ he said, because this Garrett loved other Anders, and whatever there was of Anders in other Anders made Garrett the only person here willing to risk mercy, ‘is that you knew this spirit of Justice from your time with the Wardens, before you came to Kirkwall. In order to help him, with the proviso that he would _also_ help you, you finally accepted his proposal to bring Justice to mages everywhere, and you—’

‘I didn’t,’ Anders said.

‘You did,’ Garrett replied, not meeting his eyes.

‘We’ve all seen him, at some point or another,’ Merrill confirmed. ‘Deep voice, very blue. Very, very angry.’

‘The thing is, Blondie,’ Varric added, ‘the two of you weren’t meant to room together like that. Seems to most of us that when you took on Justice, Justice took on some of you.’

‘But that would make me…’ Anders shook his head in disbelief. ‘That would make _Anders_ an abomination.’

‘Vengeance,’ Garrett said, very quietly, and laughed mirthlessly. Louder, he added, ‘I need a drink. Does anyone else feel like poisoning themselves with Corff’s least expensive whiskey?’

Aveline stood, pushing her chair back with a scrape. The sound alarmed Anders, but she didn’t appear to be looking at him. At least he could be reasonably sure she hadn’t suddenly decided to conduct her _own_ thorough and painful tests on him to see if he was the abomination they’d all come to know and hate. ‘I should be getting back. Contrary to what Knight-Commander Meredith seems to believe, the guard is _not_ capable of running itself.’ She regarded Garrett for a moment, her face gentling in what seemed like a distinctly _un_ -Aveline-like manner. Whoever this husband of hers was—Doonan? Donner? Donnic?—he’d obviously done her some good. ‘You know where I am if you need me, Hawke.’

Isabela snorted. ‘Just be sure you knock first.’

‘Why?’ Merrill asked, then cringed when everyone looked at her. ‘I missed something dirty again, didn’t I?’

‘Is she being sincere?’ Anders asked. ‘She can’t _really_ be like this all the time…can she?’

‘Stay for a pint, Red,’ Varric said. Clearly he wanted as many people around as possible to buffer the madness now shooting free-form around the room. And with all that armor, Varric could easily use her as a very large shield.

‘Whiskey,’ Garrett repeated, with the air of a man being led to his execution. He disentangled his hand from Anders’s, patting his wrist before drawing away. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘One for everyone, I think, Hawke!’ Isabela called, toward his retreating back. ‘And two for me!’

‘And keep ’em coming,’ Varric muttered.

Anders shrank back in his seat and tried not to feel like the main display—three dusty finger bones and an old silk wrap—at a chantry reliquary.

*

As always, whiskey made everything better. Corff’s particular distillation was reliably static. It reminded Anders of home, by virtue of tasting like the same species of rat.

‘I simply _must_ get his recipe,’ Anders slurred happily, swaying in his chair. One drink had multiplied handily into two, then three, and really one was all Anders needed in the first place. After three, things grew rather muzzy. But he was _exceedingly_ grateful toward the lovely Edwina, who kept them all in their cups. What a talented woman. And with such an impeccable sense of timing, too.

Even Garrett appeared to be benefiting from the medicinal purposes of rodent-flavored whiskey. He wasn’t scowling _nearly_ as much anymore, and every so often he’d let out a wheeze that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. They were no longer in the Darktown clinic—thank Andraste’s lacy knickers for _that_ —but Anders still liked to think of himself as a healer. Sometimes, there was more balm for a man’s soul in a tavern than in a filthy hovel.

‘Now _this_ is more like it,’ Isabela slurred. She was leaning back in her chair with her boots on the table, legs crossed at the ankle. It was a feat Anders couldn’t imagine himself managing while sober, let alone drunk. Especially since Isabela had a few assets that seemed as though it would make it difficult to balance. ‘Honestly, Varric, I don’t know why we didn’t just break out the whiskey from the beginning. We _obviously_ needed it.’

‘Because this was for Hawke, not you,’ Fenris said. _He_ seemed completely unaffected by whatever alcohol he’d imbibed, which of course was the way Anders’s life worked. The people who hated him always had an insufferably high tolerance for liquor. Velanna had been the same way.

Maybe it was an _elf_ thing.

‘I don’t see why it can’t be for all of us!’ Anders said, without stumbling over his words even once. He leaned comfortably against Garrett’s side—or perhaps he’d simply lost his balance momentarily. It was all a wonderful adventure. He’d taken the liberty of dragging himself closer to Garrett sometime between his third and fourth refill; Garrett, proving his tolerance for alcohol wasn’t much higher, had thrown his arm comfortably around the back of Anders’s chair. ‘That’s what a party’s about, isn’t it? Communal celebration. Getting closer to one’s friends through the tried-and-true method of drinking as much as possible.’

Merrill giggled. In fact, it seemed to be the continuation of one _long_ giggle that had been going for what seemed like hours now. She was sitting face-down at the table, and when she sat up there was a bright red circle at the center of her forehead. ‘I like this Anders. He’s much friendlier than ours, isn’t he?’

‘ _Loads_ more fun,’ Isabela agreed, lifting her bottle in a toast.

When had she gotten an entire bottle to herself? Anders wanted one of those.

‘I still can’t get my head around it,’ Varric said. He was staring at Anders intently, in a way that probably should have been off-putting. But, since Varric was so charming and Anders was so drunk, it came across as quite flattering, instead. It had become much more exciting—what with all the inebriation—to be the center of attention.

‘The fact that I’m _so_ much handsomer than my counterpart, you mean?’ Anders asked, preening.

‘ _Two_ Blondies,’ Varric said, shaking his head. ‘And a whole other Kirkwall.’

‘And a whole other everyone else,’ Anders confirmed, nodding, making himself dizzy, and nodding still. The dizziness was pleasant, a physical confirmation of his more cosmic loss of equilibrium. ‘Except for Fenris and Merrill and this Donnic fellow. And Sebastian. Whoever that is. Seems like an _awful_ stick in the mud.’

‘Choir boy, actually,’ Varric said.

‘ _Oooh_ ,’ Anders said, then, ‘eugh.’

‘It doesn’t seem real,’ Garrett mused, trailing his finger around the rim of his tankard.

‘No, that’s the thing,’ Varric said. ‘It seems all _too_ real. It’s the perfect story! Why didn’t _I_ think of something like that?’

‘We’re all ignoring the obvious problem,’ Aveline said. She’d stuck to her initial agreement of one pint—having been convinced to stay by Varric’s quick, silver tongue—but she hadn’t left after finishing it, either, which Anders assumed to mean _she_ liked him better than other Anders, too.

‘Which is?’ Garrett asked.

‘How are we going to get _our_ Anders back?’

‘Who says we want to?’ Fenris asked.

‘I take offense to that!’ Anders said. ‘Or—or I imagine he would. And so I should? Or maybe I shouldn’t. I mean, it _is_ a compliment to me, and I _like_ compliments usually. …This is all very confusing.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ Fenris said, but he didn’t sound confused at all.

‘There are some things that aren’t right in this world,’ Aveline explained. At least she was sure of herself. Aveline was always sure of herself. Anders squinted at her and attempted to be sure of her, too, but she kept turning into two Avelines right before his eyes, the makings of a _real_ phalanx.

Anders tugged at Garrett’s sleeve to express his concerns. Garrett tightened his arm around Anders’s shoulders in response, and it was nice; drunk Garrett was _very_ nice. He lacked all the sharp, prickly edges, all the mean, dark looks, all the guarded tension around his mouth and eyes and shoulders, and he was just a man, a little weary, a little too loose, with a warm chest and a strong bicep, who also happened to smell wonderful. In the midst of all the Hanged Man’s other smells, that was welcome, and Anders turned surreptitiously closer to breathe him in deep, knowing it was wrong and just a bit intrusive but doing it anyway, because even if he hadn’t been drunk, he was still and always shameless.

‘There _are_ some things that aren’t right in this world,’ Garrett agreed. ‘And I’ve contributed to approximately two-thirds to three-fourths of them, by your count alone, Aveline.’

‘You know what I mean, Hawke,’ Aveline said. ‘Do you intend to have Corff’s whiskey set things right again?’

‘Funny story,’ Anders tried to tell her, ‘but at the beginning of all this, when I woke up next to Garrett this morning, I thought Corff’s whiskey _was_ the cause. There’s no reason it might not still be. And maybe the cause is the cure and—thank you, Edwina, how _did_ you know?’

Aveline’s expression tightened as Edwina swished by, with another round for everyone. ‘As comforting as it may be, _whiskey_ is never the answer to anything,’ she said.

‘Sometimes it most certainly is!’ Anders protested. ‘Like, for example, when I’m asking people what they want to drink.’

Garrett hushed him, a few abstract pats to his shoulder, plucking at a feather or two, making Anders shiver. ‘I had no idea you were an expert in the arcane and the esoteric, Aveline,’ Garrett said. ‘Does this mean, after your extensive research on the subject, you already have a solution? You _are_ remarkable.’

‘Hawke,’ Aveline warned.

‘Human battering ram, I tell you,’ Isabela said, slamming her empty bottle down on the table. ‘Just—batter him right back to where he belongs! Go on! Batter him!’

‘Please don’t batter me,’ Anders said.

‘The urge does strike me now and again,’ Aveline said dryly. ‘But…that would be unfair to you, I’m sure, even though you look exactly like him.’

‘Does anyone else have any ideas?’ Garrett asked. Isabela opened her mouth, and Garrett held up his hand. ‘Not you, Isabela. You’ll have to wait your turn.’

‘Blew my load too early on battering ram,’ Isabela muttered, shaking her head. ‘ _Balls._ I _hate_ it when I do that.’

‘Do you do that often?’ Anders asked.

‘What, blow my load or get battering rammed?’ Isabela asked with a beautiful leer.

‘Well, we could always ask the Keeper,’ Merrill said, suddenly sitting upright again. Anders had no idea when that had happened, or how she’d managed—small and delicate as she was—to drink so much and still remain so very conscious. ‘I’m sure she’d know something—something more than we do, anyway. She always knows _something_ more than you, because… Well, because she’s the Keeper!’

‘And she keeps all that knowledge, yes,’ Varric said, covering up a laugh most admirably. ‘Very good, Daisy.’

‘More Dalish women?’ Anders asked. ‘No _thank_ you. I’ve had enough of them for one lifetime. Enough of thorn spells and walking bombs and evil trees trying to kill me, too.’

‘Oh, but trees are never evil, Anders,’ Merrill said.

‘Maybe not the trees _you’ve_ met,’ Anders replied, though knowing the Dalish as he did, she’d probably met _all_ the trees _ever._ No doubt it was part of the process of initiation.

‘Well, isn’t this helpful,’ Garrett said, and took another liberal gulp of his whiskey, shaking his head as it burned its way down his throat.

Anders watched him, the lean line of his neck, the bob of muscle as he swallowed, the dark stubble gathered in the shadow. He sighed, dreamily, then pretended he was hiccupping when Garrett caught him staring.

‘I’ll look into it,’ Varric said.

Anders clapped his hands. ‘Oh, excellent. Just what I’ve always wanted! A _dwarf_ helping me with _magic._ ’

‘Don’t press your luck, Blondie,’ Varric chuckled. ‘Don’t you remember? I’m the only one here who likes you. And besides, I’ve got contacts, and not just dwarven merchants.’

‘Here we go again,’ Garrett muttered. ‘He knows everyone who’s anyone and no one will ever realize who the true puppeteer behind the City of Chains _really_ is. It’s not Meredith, certainly not the Viscount, but Varric Tethras, sitting on his throne in Lowtown, stroking all his chest hair.’

‘Hey, Hawke,’ Varric said, ‘you’re getting good. I’m impressed. Never figured you’d be one for telling stories, but you just love proving me wrong, don’t you?’

‘I thought I’d pay you back, what with you doing the same for me all these years,’ Garrett replied. ‘And you’re right. Gross exaggerations of the truth _are_ delightful.’

‘Anyway,’ Varric continued blithely, ‘I’ll see what I can dig up. Can’t imagine something this big would just fly under the radar. If there was some blood magic ritual going on in the underground that caused all this, I’ll find out.’

‘And I’ll check the Black Emporium,’ Garrett added, sounding completely _not_ inebriated, and instead curious, sober, and thoughtful. ‘With cotton in my ears so I don’t have to hear that infernal Xenon _babbling_.’

‘Blood magic,’ Anders murmured, shaking his head. ‘Black Emporium. Thrones in Lowtown… I don’t know if I like this story very much.’

‘Aw, Blondie,’ Varric said. ‘You can’t say that now. Not when you haven’t even gotten to the ending yet.’

*

It was very, very late—or rather, very, very early—when Garrett and Anders finally left the Hanged Man. Isabela was asleep on the floor, and Aveline had long since departed; Varric and Merrill were the only ones left standing, playing a few rounds of some Dalish card game while the sun began to peek over the horizon.

Anders cheerfully followed Garrett’s lead back to the ennobled heights of Hightown. It wasn’t a route he knew well, since he’d been based much closer to Lowtown with Garrett and Carver back home. In fact, their house had been barely around the corner from the Hanged Man—just a short stumble into the neighboring hex. Even Anders could make it all the way home without blacking out or rolling into any welcoming ditches.

It had been an exceedingly convenient arrangement. Even if the house itself had smelled rather like mildew and stale air, there were at least no infestations, and Leandra did manage to keep it feeling cozy enough.

The trek to Hightown was far longer by contrast and—even worse than that—it had those blighted _stairs_ again, much more daunting going up than coming down. There was a seemingly endless number of them, twisting up into the sky itself. Very shortly, Anders was certain, they would reach the kingdom of the Maker, and he would punch the great creator square in the face for being so contradictory about mages. _That_ would be a satisfactory conclusion to this evening, largely in keeping with what had happened to him so far today—and Varric would be so jealous that he’d missed it all.

Anders’s stomach heaved, and he clutched at Garrett’s arm. It was nice that he could do that, now. A sort of truce seemed to have blossomed between them in the Hanged Man, forged by woodchips and whiskey. At the very least, Anders could touch Garrett without him shying away, warm muscle beneath Anders’s fingertips.

‘What is it?’ Garrett muttered. His face blurred in Anders’s vision, shadowed by the dark and his own private thoughts.

Anders hesitated, breathing deeply while he waited for his stomach to right itself. ‘False alarm!’

But the mildly queasy feeling in his gut didn’t go away. It persisted all the way up to Hightown and into Garrett’s estate—the estate of the _Champion_ of _Kirkwall_. First the Hero of Ferelden, and now this. Anders was moving up in the world—and not just literally on the steps to Hightown.

The notebook he’d stolen weighed heavily against his chest; the extra pages he’d crammed between its covers were crinkling uncomfortably beneath his coat; the warmth of the night and the strength of Corff’s brew were making him sweat. It was strange being back here, especially so now that he knew it was Garrett’s house. One he could actually afford.

Anders reeled away to stumble around the open room: directly across from him was a writing desk with letters, all of them from people Anders didn’t know. That was incredibly lonely, so he moved onto the next desk, which bore an assortment of order forms for potions, runes and poisons. Of late, Garrett seemed to be purchasing more health potions than usual. Had he—had _Anders_ —not been doing his job?

‘Welcome back, messeres,’ Bodahn said, appearing from out of nowhere; Anders was half-expecting a cloud of smoke. Or had he been lurking in that corner the entire time? How touchingly disturbing. _House dwarves._ Anders would never get used to the concept. ‘I’m glad you came in when you did—I was about to turn in for the night myself, and I would’ve worried myself sick if I didn’t know you were home safe.’

‘That’s all right, Bodahn,’ Garrett said, expertly keeping his voice form slurring. ‘We’ll just be heading upstairs.’

Liquid heat filled Anders’s abdomen, replacing the nausea. The memory of last night was fresh in his mind, although in the rush of everything _new_ to learn, he’d rather forgotten about it until now. He smoothed a hand over Garrett’s potion orders and turned away from the desk. The flames in the nearby hearth warmed his skin, making his fingers itch.

To his surprise, Garrett was staring at him from across the room. The sight of him in the firelight was…something. It was making Anders’s heart do all sorts of acrobatic talents in his chest, that was what. Either that, or Corff’s whiskey was finally causing his body to break down into nothing more than a shambling corpse.

Stranger things had happened. They’d happened just this morning, as a matter of fact.

‘Upstairs,’ Anders reminded him.

Garrett nodded slowly. In the faint light, Anders saw him swallow, about to speak.

But from the depths of the house, something _enormous_ came hurtling out of the library, panting and wheezing and _drooling_ in a way that seemed positively overwrought. The beast launched itself at Garrett, pushing its gigantic wet head against his chest. Then—seemingly oblivious to the potential moment it had ridden over roughshod—the animal let out a happy bark.

Of _course._ Because no matter what world Anders woke up in, no matter what mistake of the Maker or machinations of his enemies had landed him in a different dimension, he couldn’t escape that smelly mabari warhound.

Garrett at least had the decency to look startled by the assault, but he quickly warmed up to the dog, just like _other_ Garrett always did. He scratched him lovingly behind the ears, bending down on one knee to thump a strong hand against his side.

‘Good dog,’ he murmured. Anders fought the urge to smile indulgently at the display. Then, as if sensing his blatant staring, Garrett gave Anders a sly look. ‘ _He’s_ why I assumed you wouldn’t want the couch.’

‘Beg pardon?’ Anders asked. ‘Oh, the couch. No. _Is_ there a couch? I didn’t know that was an option. I’m not used to staying in places with couches.’ Garrett gave the dog one last resounding pat, then straightened. Bodahn had retreated back into the shadows, presumably to tend to his haunted companion; Anders was struck again by the fact that they were completely alone in the house. That he’d _come home_ with Garrett. For the night. ‘Not that I want it. My very own couch… It’s just nice to know what’s in this house. Your house. To which I am a frequent guest…’

He trailed off as Garrett came to stand before him. The thought of going upstairs with him now—to the _bedroom,_ where Anders had woken up naked and sore—made his throat run dry.

‘There’s a couch upstairs, too,’ Garrett said. ‘In the study. And it’s what _I_ will be sleeping on.’

Understanding hit Anders square in the chest just as the dog began to whuff at his hand. Anders rubbed him distractedly on the slimy nose. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. With the dog.’

‘Mabari,’ Garrett corrected.

How like him.

‘Right, the warhound,’ Anders said. He patted the creature a bit higher up, between his ears, where he was an absolute pushover for that sort of thing, and where the furrowed wrinkles of his brow were soft and quizzical and almost endearing. There was some drool on Anders’s palm and he surreptitiously wiped it on the mabari’s fur at his scruff, then looked up at Garrett with an enormously fake smile. ‘It doesn’t seem right to kick you out of your own bed.’

‘It’s our bed,’ Garrett explained, glancing away. ‘You rarely ever use it, though, so it…makes an odd sort of sense. Just accept it, all right? I know you don’t want to wake up with a warhound on your chest, and that’s exactly what will happen if you stay in the study. Plus, there’s no lock on the door, and Sandal wanders in sometimes in the night, and _that’s_ creepy.’

‘Is Sandal the other dwarf?’ Anders asked. He felt a frisson of horror course down his spine.

‘The very one,’ Garrett confirmed.

‘I’ll take the bedroom, then,’ Anders said.

Garret’s mouth twitched in that crooked, endearing way—not quite a smile, not quite a grin, not quite anything, but warm in the play of firelight and shadows. ‘I thought you might.’

He led Anders up the stairs, a hand under his forearm, and they didn’t fall down at _any_ point, which was a miracle unto itself. Anders swayed at the balcony, holding onto the railing, staring down at the empty reception room below, the dog curled up by the fireplace, chin on his gigantic paws.

There was really no one in this house save for a slobbering animal, two peculiar dwarves, and Garrett. Not even his mother. Not even—

‘Where’s Bethany?’ Anders asked, as Garrett turned him patiently around and guided him into the master bedroom. He felt Garrett tense up; he stopped just in the doorway, while Anders careened forward and pitched onto the bed. It was an exceptionally comfortable bed; Anders _liked_ all the silk and the velvet, done up so neatly while they were gone. Anders rubbed his cheeks against a particularly detailed patch of brocade, feeling the stiff thread and the beadwork snag on his stubble. It smelled remarkably of dog fur in this one spot, and Anders sneezed.

‘Bethany’s in the Circle,’ Garrett said finally. ‘There was… Something happened, while I wasn’t there, and she was taken by templars.’

‘Oh no,’ Anders said, falling still, clumps of blanket in each hand. He tried to sit up, tried to find Garrett in the darkness, but saw only a shadowy form on the threshold, arms folded, shoulders a little _too_ easy. ‘Garrett, I’m so…sorry…’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Garrett told him. ‘Four years. She survived her Harrowing; she’s kept out of trouble. She knows that if she doesn’t, I’ll tear the damn Gallows down myself, and… I’m the Champion now. Meredith is wary of me.’

‘How did you become the Champion?’ Anders asked.

Garrett leaned against the doorframe; Anders saw his form shift as he lifted one hand to inspect a fingernail. ‘Oh, nothing too interesting,’ he said lightly. ‘I merely defeated the Arishok in single combat, in front of all of Kirkwall’s nobles, and single-handedly saved the city from being razed to the ground by furious qunari.’

‘All in a day’s work, then,’ Anders said, voice sounding strangled.

Garrett shrugged. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Have you?’ Anders asked.

‘Yes,’ Garrett replied simply. If there was more to the story, he’d chosen not to elaborate.

Anders decided to steer the topic back around to something else, something about which Garrett might have slightly more to say. He didn’t want to be alone yet, not in a room where he hadn’t woken _up_ alone that morning. It was all very luxurious, and very fancy, and very much more than Anders knew he deserved or would likely ever see again—he was lying in a bed with a _canopy_ , of all things, the very definition of indulgence—but he felt uncomfortable in it. Like he was in the wrong place. Which he was, wasn’t he? But he didn’t want to deal with all of this again tomorrow on a bad night’s sleep. Not on top of everything.

‘I’d always wanted to meet Bethany,’ Anders said, rolling over onto his back, staring up at the dark whorl of fabric above his head. He heard the floorboards creak as Garrett shifted again. Constantly in motion, a bit like that elf Fenris, but not quite so twitchy. More…rangy, more cautious. Constantly aware of everyone and everything, and all _too_ aware of the language of his own body, a dangerous quality in a rogue. ‘The Garrett _I_ know…’ Anders trailed off. All of a sudden it didn’t seem like good form to mention that Garrett’s sister was dead. Not when she really wasn’t. And it would probably remind him of his brother, who _was_ , and his mother, who also was.

Anders didn’t like feeling sorry for other people: once you started, it snowballed wildly out of your control, until you were spontaneously and instinctively feeling sorry for everyone. Anders had a personality of wild extremes and gross exaggerations. He knew his own limitations. He knew he couldn’t risk getting involved.

‘…Never mind,’ he murmured, and turned his face against the blanket. ‘I’m going to fall asleep in my boots now, and regret it all so _very_ much in the morning.’

‘Try not to vomit on anything that looks like it’s from Ferelden,’ Garrett said. ‘Bodahn’s a deft hand at getting out all kinds of stains, especially the ones Sandal tends to leave on things, but you never can tell with dwarves.’

‘My life motto,’ Anders agreed. ‘We’re so alike.’

‘Good night, Anders,’ Garrett said.

‘Good night, Garrett,’ Anders replied.

The door swung shut as Garrett left, and Anders wondered for a brief moment if he’d have difficulty falling asleep now that he was alone. The room was large, the night quiet, the moonlight falling in a narrow shaft across his stomach, like he was being sliced in two, one half in this world, one half in the other. It was all very symbolic, and all very disquieting, and Anders was unconscious no less than a second after the realization, drooling like a mabari on the bedspread.

*

He woke the next morning to an unexpected and enticing smell, something he only recognized now that he was living with actual people—Wardens didn’t count as actual people—or rather, an actual family. Leandra Hawke cooked breakfast in the morning just like this, the smell of eggs and meats and cheese and bread, and Anders wished he wasn’t so incredibly hung-over, because he was also _incredibly_ hungry.

Conveniently enough, he’d not only fallen asleep in his boots, but he’d had the foresight to do so fully-dressed, too. That cut down on a great deal of his usual awkward morning fumblings. What was more, it seemed like good sense _not_ to sleep naked in a bed that smelled like Garrett—Garrett’s clothes, and Garrett’s skin, and Garrett’s dog. No matter what he’d said about it being part Anders’s bed anyway, it just didn’t feel right. In fact, the idea that it might smell like _both_ of them just made things worse.

The entire room spun when Anders sat up, and for a moment it no longer mattered _how_ good breakfast smelled downstairs. He settled his boots against the soft carpet, flexing his toes inside the sturdy leather. The carved details in the nearest bedpost made for a comforting distraction. He traced the grooves in the wood, taking in the room in the light of day. Another Anders shared this room with Garrett. He probably wrote equally disturbing things at that writing desk in the corner, retired to this bed at night, played the lute by the fireplace in his drunker moments…

Maker, but Anders hoped he didn’t play the lute. If they were anything alike on _that_ front, it was the surest way of scaring Garrett clean out of the relationship.

Feeling more grounded, Anders stood and made his way across the room, opening the door that led to the second floor. From there, it wasn’t very difficult to follow his nose. Despite his stomach’s best efforts to remind him he had a hangover, Anders trotted eagerly downstairs, hooking past the library and through a door he’d never noticed before. He passed an _exceedingly_ ugly statue—he’d have to speak to Garrett about that later—and entered into a lovely, well-lit room, with a tiled floor and a large stove.

The dwarves—of _course_ it was the dwarves—were working in tandem to cook what looked like an entire pork roast. The bearded one—Bodahn—was wearing an apron that seemed slightly too large for him, and he’d thoughtfully tided a bit of cloth around his head to keep his hair from getting into the food. What a considerate fellow. Anders didn’t feel in the _least_ as if he’d walked into a sanitarium.

‘Ah—hello?’ Anders ventured, cringing as Bodahn smashed a large metal pot down on one of the stove burners.

‘Ah!’ Bodahn said, whipping around. He performed a funny little bow, meat tongs clutched in one hand and a filthy rag in the other. ‘A very good morning to you, Messere Anders. I trust Serah Hawke is in better spirits today than, ah… Well, _you_ look much better, in any case. What a fine day it already is, if I do say so myself!’

The beardless dwarf was standing on a small footstool, wielding a knife and mincing something green with alarming speed. He didn’t look up.

‘Yes, thank you, Bodahn,’ Anders said. He was beginning to feel that this was a mistake; his newfound bravery in a house that didn’t _really_ belong to him was more akin to foolishness and presumption than anything. This time, when another pot crashed into the stove, he barely even flinched. ‘…May I ask what’s going on in here?’

‘Breakfast!’ Sandal announced. He turned around, eyes vacant, happily wielding the knife he’d been using to chop vegetables.

‘Of _course_ it is,’ Anders said, taking a quick step back. What he really wanted to ask was whether they were making breakfast _for an army,_ but he decided to let that slide. Who knew how much Garrett liked to eat in the morning? For that matter, who knew what he liked to feed his dog?

Thinking of Garrett and his dog made Anders wish he’d thought to check the upstairs study first, instead of following the caprices and whims of his stomach. It seemed impossible that any man could sleep in spite of the delicious smells the dwarves were producing—to say nothing of the racket they’d stirred up in the name of making them.

‘Perhaps you’d like to wake Serah Hawke yourself, Messere Anders?’ Bodahn said, with a grand show of innocence that was actually _quite_ sly. There was a knowing twinkle in his eye as he appeared before Anders with a plate absolutely laden down with meat, potatoes, and what appeared to be freshly-baked rolls. There were even minced onions on the side. How had he gathered all that so quickly? Where had it all come from?

Maybe dwarves _did_ have magic. Maybe the Circle had it all so spectacularly wrong.

‘Thank you,’ Anders muttered, wisely choosing not to question it. Instead, he took the plate.

‘Bacon!’ Sandal said, helpfully.

‘Yes, that’s quite right, my boy,’ Bodahn said, as Anders backed away as quickly as he could. ‘There’s not much Sandal here likes near to his enchanting, but if there _was_ something…’

Anders nodded, pretending to listen, and allowed the door to swing shut behind him, ending the staggering remains of the conversation. Yet he could still hear Bodahn carrying on without pause—apparently Anders wasn’t really needed as a participant, or even an observer.

*

When Anders crept very sneakily into the second floor study, Garrett was still asleep. He was sprawled out on his back, boots off, one leg thrown up over the arm of the couch. His face was buried in the crook of his arm, and he was snoring very lightly. He’d dragged a thin blanket over himself, but Anders could see he was shirtless, and likely _very_ uncomfortable without a pillow, his neck bent crooked against the scrolled arm of the couch—which was all wood, not even upholstered. The mabari was sleeping at his feet, drooling and no doubt dreaming its stinky dog dreams. Yet its nose twitched, smelling the feast Anders had brought upstairs, and a moment later Garrett’s nose twitched, too.

Anders cleared some things out of the way and set the tray down on a nearby desk, feeling positively domestic. He never had dreams that extended this far into the day-to-day—they were always more like the previous morning, a naked and sweaty tangle of limbs and raw nerve-endings, his subconscious always well aware of the immediate gratification and physical pleasures he wanted more of, not the mature, emotionally rewarding future he would one day have to confront. But not for a long time yet. He was still young, and had so much more to do, so many more places to see, hearts to break and everything one did in all the best, most romantic adventures he’d stolen from the Circle library while purportedly studying dull, dismal, decaying magical theory.

As a prodigy, which he of course was, he’d seen no reason to push himself beyond his natural limits. Every now and then he met someone, like the Garrett not currently half-asleep on the couch in front of him, who made him feel ashamed—made him wonder, guiltily, if he should somehow be more, if he should rise to greet his grand destiny the same way he’d risen to not being slaughtered during the siege on Vigil’s Keep. But he was always wary of being called a hero—that was part of why he’d wanted to leave Amaranthine, and Ferelden altogether. It wasn’t _just_ because of the complications with the Wardens—who were, he’d decided on the boat trip to Kirkwall, just jealous of him, for so many reasons.

No; it felt to him as though anyone who believed that someone like Anders could be a hero was very gullible indeed, and also setting himself up for grave disappointment in the future, when Anders’s natural instincts refused to deliver the sort of self-sacrifice they were expecting. It was too much pressure. It would give a man chronic intestinal distress, and also, wrinkles.

Anders rubbed at the corner of one eye, turning to face Garrett on the couch. Garrett stirred, lifting his arm a fraction of an inch, peering up at him from the shadow of his own elbow.

‘Unnngh,’ Garrett said.

Anders recognized that sound, low and deep and wretched; it was very close to the moan a re-animated skeleton expelled as it lurched toward its victim in a spooky basement or the Deep Roads, wielding, of all things, its own weapon. Where did those skeletons get all those weapons, Anders usually wondered, or were they buried with them, or was there some kind of skeleton market or armory? It was always so exciting when they appeared, practically out of nowhere—Anders liked freezing them from afar, then watching someone with a very big weapon leap in to shatter their icy bones. But he also liked the bizarre, ineffectualness of it all, the sheer and blissful surreality of seeing little skeleton fingers wrapped around the hilt of a rusted blade.

His life was so strange, and also, Garrett was _so_ hung-over.

Anders moved over to the window, drawing the thick, velvet curtains more tightly together, keeping all the sunlight out of the room. Then he went back to the tray of food, shooed the dog away from it, gently shoved the dog-drool-covered portion to one side, and picked through the rest for something to eat, settling on a dripping piece of bacon.

The dog looked at him reprovingly, whining in the back of his throat, and Anders shook his head. ‘That doesn’t work on _me_ ,’ he informed it. ‘ _I’m_ a cat person.’

Garrett made another noise, something closer to a groan, and turned his face into the side of the couch. ‘I need a moment in private,’ he said.

‘Sorry, but that’s out of the question,’ Anders replied. ‘Your house dwarves disturb me and I don’t wish to be left alone with them. Have some bacon; you’ll feel better.’

‘Bacon,’ Garrett repeated, and belched. ‘Bodahn is… Bodahn is _trying to kill me._ ’

‘He’s trying to look after you, actually,’ Anders said. ‘At least, I think. I never realized dwarves could be motherly until I met Varric. Before that they were just those short, thick little people who stand between me and oh so many darkspawn. Dwarves have their uses. I just wish the dwarves _I_ knew would cook _me_ bacon.’

‘You are infuriatingly cheerful this morning,’ Garrett said, finally sitting up. He hunched over his knees, elbows resting on his thighs, scrubbing his face with his hands before raking his fingers through his hair. When he looked up again, it was standing at all ends; he looked like he’d been caught in an electric current, between Anders and a lightning spell. Anders covered his mouth, pretending he was trying to pick some bacon fat out of his teeth. ‘I saw that look. Let me guess: I look terrible.’

‘You look…something,’ Anders admitted.

Garrett’s expression became pinched, and he dug his heel into one red-rimmed eye. ‘Don’t say that,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The last time you said that, I fell in love with you.’

‘Oh,’ Anders said. He choked down a mouthful of meat and looked away. ‘That sounds like a wonderful story! You’ll have to tell me all about it sometime.’

Garrett paused, whistling for the dog to get away from the food again, then seemed to notice the food for the first time. ‘You brought me breakfast?’ he asked.

‘Bodahn made it,’ Anders told him quickly. If ever there’d been a time for his compulsive lying to make itself known, now would have been it. He could have claimed all the credit, with none of the repercussions for such a blatant falsehood. ‘And the…other one. Sandal, was it? So I’m not really sure if it’s poisoned or _what_ it’s made of, but it can’t be worse for you than Corff’s ale, so dig in.’

Garrett made a grab for one of the meaty bits the dog had already given a liberal licking, and Anders didn’t have the heart to stop him. ‘I don’t know where Bodahn’s learned half these things,’ Garrett admitted, ‘and I have _no_ idea where Sandal learned _any_ of them.’

‘And yet you let them live with you, here, in your house, alone,’ Anders said. ‘With only a dog—’

‘Mabari.’

‘— _Mabari_ to protect you.’ Anders tutted, shaking his head. ‘You do like to live on the edge, Champion.’

Garrett cringed. ‘ _Maker_ , don’t call me that. You only ever call me that when you’re angry.’

‘Does he?’ Anders asked. This was all news to him, and rather interesting, at that. He’d never indulged in a real, committed relationship before. He’d never had the time, nor the inclination to become that serious about anyone or any _thing._ It was difficult to promise himself to someone when he’d been constantly on the run from the templars, and the Circle wasn’t exactly the place to expend serious emotional investment, and then there were the Wardens to consider.

In short, this relationship with _another_ Garrett was the closest Anders had come to imagining himself being in love. At the same time, he could maintian a respectful distance from the whole affair, since it wasn’t, by all rights, _his_. It was _almost_ like reading a romance novel in which he’d somehow attained the starring role, except that the heroes of romance novels were never as handsome as Garrett, and they never owned hulking, panting mabari, either.

‘Mm,’ Garrett grunted. He reached for another slice of bacon, evidently having decided once again he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Which was an incredible shame, as Anders had only just gotten started. They weren’t finished yet, no matter how much Garrett wanted them to be. ‘Does that happen often? Him being angry at you, I mean.’

‘Less, since Mother died,’ Garrett admitted. ‘Most of what we fight about is Justice, and he’s been...more present, of late. Harder to fight about him when you’re fighting _with_ him.’

‘Ah,’ Anders said, cleverly. He fished out what looked like a hunk of potato and slipped it into his mouth. It was far too early to discuss abominations. He understood why Garrett had dodged the issue; as always, his revelatory moment came just a hair too late. ‘And what does he call you when he _isn’t_ angry with you?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Garrett quipped, a little too quickly. He was going to have to work on his comedic timing if he wanted to make jokes like that. Anders would know. He was an expert on the hilarious deflect.

Anders pursed his lips, studying Garrett as though he was a new and exciting tome on the properties of phylacteries. Even in the dark, he could see the beauty mark beneath Garrett’s eye, and the evasive look on his face as he tried to work out why Anders was scrutinizing him. Outright staring was the only tactic that had ever worked on Nathaniel Howe when Anders wished to get a straight, non- _roguey_ answer out of him. The only problem was that it could be exceedingly difficult to pull off, for the simple reason that it was hard for Anders not to talk for so long.

‘Something on my face?’ Garrett asked.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Anders pointed out. ‘I’m only wondering because I call Garrett _Garrett,_ but everyone here calls you Hawke, and I wondered whether he might too. But then I thought that might be a little awkward, considering the two of you were sleeping together and living together and fighting all the time and… It’s not very _intimate_ to call out someone’s family name in the throes of passion, now is it?’

‘He calls me Garrett,’ Garrett said, cracking under the enormous strain of Anders’s interrogation tactics. Precisely as Anders had known he would.

‘There,’ Anders said. He leaned back against the table, making use of his body as a barrier between the dog and the plate of food. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ He lowered his voice, drawing the word out thoughtfully. ‘ _Garrett_.’

Garrett looked at him and carefully swallowed the bit of breakfast that’d been in his mouth. ‘Yes. That’s it.’

It occurred to Anders at that moment that they were flirting. Or, at the very least, that _he_ was flirting, blatantly, and Garrett was doing nothing at all to discourage him. Perhaps the hangover was interfering with his sense of better judgment. In which case it was up to Anders to take charge of things.

Never a good situation when Anders was the last line of responsible defense.

‘So… Varric mentioned an awfully odd-sounding place called the Black Emporium,’ Anders said. He allowed his own shoulder to brush up against Garrett’s bare one, but only because he’d been so good in changing the topic. He deserved _some_ kind of reward. Garrett flinched, like the feathers tickled. ‘Is that something we ought to be looking into, today?’

Garrett blinked, and his expression changed at once. His features grew guarded, the line of his jaw hardening starkly. It was almost as if he’d allowed himself to forget all the strangeness of yesterday, but of course, that wasn’t possible. Garrett would never allow himself to be so careless.

‘Right,’ he said. He lifted a hand to rub at his beard, possibly checking for imaginary food particles. ‘You’re probably wanting to get back home.’

‘I _half_ imagined that when I woke up this morning, I’d be back there already,’ Anders confessed. ‘Since that was how all this happened in the first place. Go to sleep in one world, wake up in the other! It all seemed rather logical when I was drunk.’

‘I’m sure,’ Garrett said. ‘So many things do.’ He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Then he popped one of the joints, sighing in relief. He really was too big for that blasted couch. It couldn’t have been helping that he was sharing it with the mabari. ‘You still have your notes?’

Anders patted his chest. They’d made for an incredibly poor mattress, but he’d forgotten to take the notebook out of his coat last night. He’d just have to hope he hadn’t crinkled or ripped anything beyond repair, or that his skin wasn’t completely covered with sweat-soaked ink.

‘Good.’ Garrett raked a hand through his hair, then passed his fingers in the other direction to flatten it. Even with all this house, all these statues, the fireplaces and the studies and the couches and the bookshelves, Garrett appeared determined to comb his hair with his own fingers, rather than an actual comb. ‘You’ll study those. I’ll go to the Black Emporium. Varric will do whatever it is Varric does, and we’ll all meet back at the Hanged Man with our findings later.’

Anders didn’t want to be left alone in the house during the daylight hours any more than he had at night, although now that desire was less impulsive and childish and more rational. He didn’t want to be left with only the dwarves for company. And what if the dog—the mabari—did something on the carpet, or wanted pets, or drooled on Anders’s leg? Then there was the little fact of Anders not belonging here, and feeling it more and more with every passing second. Without even Garrett to stand as guardian and company and familiar face all in one, Anders really had nothing tying himself to this place.

Uninterrupted study had _never_ suited him.

‘What if we don’t find anything?’ Anders asked.

‘We’ll go to the Gallows and talk to the mages there, I suppose,’ Garrett replied. When Anders blanched, he added, ‘Well, it’s either that or Merrill’s Keeper. And I’ve seen her in action. _Very_ impressive.’

‘What lovely options,’ Anders said weakly. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

‘There’s the spirit,’ Garrett told him, clapping him on the back so hard he coughed. ‘Now all I need is a shirt.’

He stood, moving quickly away from Anders’s side, tossing the mabari a few fatty scraps—no wonder the animal was so bloody spoiled—and ranged around the room with that same nervous energy from last night, lithe and lean and constantly in motion. He wasn’t the sort of man who could stop moving, Anders thought privately, but studying him in the pale light with the curtains drawn and the muscles of his back ever-shifting wasn’t a good idea. Anders poked at a hole in his coat, scuffing his heels against the floor beneath them as he swung his legs back and forth.

‘What if we _do_ find something?’ Anders asked. ‘What if this—’ He fished the notebook out from the front of his coat, ‘—holds all the answers, and I find them, and it’s all time-sensitive, and I need to find you before the first sign of sundown on the second day or else I’m stuck here forever, but I don’t know where you are because we so cleverly split up and I’ve never heard of this…Black Emporium?’

‘You’ll go to the Hanged Man and find Varric,’ Garrett told him.

‘But what if Varric isn’t there?’ Anders countered.

‘Then you’ll ask Corff where Varric’s gone,’ Garrett said.

‘But what if Corff’s been murdered by mercenaries, or pirates? Or bandits, or the Carta, or the Coterie; or a roving band of renegade qunari, or blood mages, or confused templars who think _Corff’s_ a blood mage, or the city guard finally coming to arrest him for that swill he passes off as whiskey?’ Anders asked. When Garrett arched a suspicious brow, looking near to laughing at Anders’s extremely serious line of questioning, he held up his hands innocently. ‘This is _Kirkwall_ ,’ he protested. ‘That sort of thing isn’t just _possible_ , it happens every _hour_! It’s a valid concern, anyway.’

‘You’re right, Anders,’ Garrett said. ‘You’ve thought of everything. If _that_ happens, you’ll just stand on the nearest street corner screaming for the Champion, and my innate Champion senses will hear you, and I’ll come running.’

‘Well _that’s_ handy,’ Anders said. ‘You honestly just want to be alone today; I see how it is.’

‘The Black Emporium is really very boring anyway,’ Garrett promised him, conveniently not responding to what Anders had actually said. ‘You don’t want to go there as much as you think you do, just because of the name.’

‘If they knew it was going to be boring, why would they call it the Black Emporium?’ Anders sighed. ‘And here I thought Kirkwall was so literal. City of Chains; Hightown; Lowtown; _Darktown._ Everywhere else, you know what you’re getting.’

‘The Black Emporium isn’t like everywhere else,’ Garrett told him. ‘I’ll see you at the Hanged Man later.’

‘If I haven’t been caught up in yet another sinister plot before then!’ Anders called after him warningly, but Garrett had already left the study, heading toward the master bedroom, his faithful mabari hound in tow, leaving Anders behind to sit on the couch and wonder where his life had gone wrong, other Anders’s notebook unopened on his lap.

*

Anders waited until Garrett had left the house, the mabari thankfully accompanying him, the dwarves less thankfully not accompanying him, to crack open the notebook. It reeked, of Darktown and of a more personal desperation, and of cheap ink and dirty paper. Anders stared unhappily at his name on the front page, not really wanting to delve too deeply—delving too deeply had caused the very first Blight; it was best to keep everything at surface level, conveniently and safely shallow.

But Garrett was out there visiting a dangerous place called the Black Emporium on his behalf, and Varric was pulling strings and greasing wheels and making shady deals in an equally dramatic fashion, and Anders wanted to go home again and put this all behind him more than he wanted to stay out of it, if staying out of it meant the opposite would happen.

It wasn’t that it was bad. It just wasn’t his. And even as selfish as he was, as self-serving as he could be, he could at least see _that_.

‘Start at the beginning,’ Anders muttered. And then, ‘yes, good show, Anders. Talking to yourself _and_ being obvious. What brilliant ideas all around!’

Maybe if the dwarves heard him muttering to himself behind closed doors they’d leave him alone for the entire afternoon. Then again, as Anders flipped from the first page to the dreaded second on the book, perhaps they were used to that behavior from him. Perhaps _Other Anders_ muttered to himself all the time, beating himself around the head with one hand and scratching busily away with his quill in the other.

It painted a very vivid picture of the man. Unfortunately, so did his notes.

Now that Anders knew a little bit more about the person who’d written this impassioned screed, his personal life as opposed to his social views, he supposed it made _slightly_ more sense that he’d be so…single-minded. Once Justice got an idea into his head, he approached it straight-on, much like a battering ram himself, and wouldn’t allow anything to deter him, even for an instant. Anders could still recall quite clearly what it had been like to run across him in the Fade: no amount of reasoning had been able to reach him on the matter of the Baronness. He’d made up his mind to free the people of the Blackmarsh, and free them he did. The thought and the deed had been one and the same. There was no coaxing him around to look at things some other way than his own, and there was _certainly_ no appealing to his better nature.

Anders wasn’t even sure he had one. Except weren’t spirits supposed to be comprised entirely _of_ a mortal’s better nature? It just depended on the virtues they embodied, or something—more completely irrelevant theories Anders had never contemplated before.

But then, if he’d agreed to Other Anders’s offer of being his host, then presumably Justice must have been given _some_ manner of human frailty. As Anders turned the pages more rapidly, he realized that was what he was looking for, not a clue to his predicament, but a clue to _Justice’s_ predicament. Two very different things. What he wanted was a sign— _any_ sign—of something, or some _one_ , that he could relate to.

And still the person who’d written this showed no mind at all for compromise. He didn’t seem to be prepared to entertain other opinions. He didn’t seem to believe other opinions should exist.

Even worse, it wasn’t as if Anders could blame him. Not entirely. A lot of the ideas—especially Other Anders’s favorite, that the Maker granted magic to mages, so why was it they were _always_ condemned for it?—seemed solid enough. They were thoughts Anders had even had before, in brief, slim, furtive moments, before banishing them for being at once too logical and too radical for the rest of Thedas to embrace. And it wasn’t as though he could pretend the very sight of templars didn’t make his blood boil.

But the author of these words seemed to share Anders’s fury at being oppressed with Justice’s uncompromising nature, and the result was a frightening combination of helpless rage and inflexible ideals. Definitely a _volatile_ arrangement.

As Anders continued to read, he couldn’t help but recall what the others had said in the Hanged Man. Suddenly, their attitudes toward him made far more sense.

How could anyone remain friends with someone so obviously consumed by his cause? How could Garrett _love_ someone who appeared to have nothing inside of him but fury and sorrow for the plight of every mage in Thedas? Garrett couldn’t possibly know about this darker side.

Maybe he’d never read the notebook.

Except everyone had confirmed just yesterday that not only were the writings _not_ private, but Other Anders went out of his way to share his thoughts with people as often as he could.

Garrett knew, then. They lived together. They slept together. He _had_ to know. And, realizing that, it _still_ didn’t make any sense. How could anyone willingly enter into a relationship with the full knowledge they’d _always_ come second? Anders certainly couldn’t. He liked to be first in everything. First in someone’s thoughts, first in someone’s heart, and first in the washroom before Carver got it all messy. And he absolutely abhorred it when people paid attention to things other than him.

So how could they be so different?

Anders smoothed a trembling hand over the latest page, his pinky finger tracing a blot of ink, where the writer had grown all too excited, possibly broken his pen.

What was it Garrett had called him? Not _Anders_ or _Justice_ but… Vengeance.

It was a little easier to think of him that way, a stranger, not someone Anders actually _knew_. If he didn’t have to imagine himself sharing a name with a single-minded abomination who was apparently working on a secondary plan to alienate all the friends he’d ever made in Kirkwall, it was _slightly_ easier to think about.

This notebook was Vengeance. It wasn’t _Anders_ at all.

Yet, as much as Anders wished to believe it, he couldn’t, even after little more than _one_ day in _this_ Kirkwall. The man Varric considered a friend wasn’t Vengeance. The man Merrill and Isabela and Aveline apparently tolerated on his good days wasn’t Vengeance, either. The man Fenris hated and went out of his way to stare at balefully… _might_ have been Vengeance. But it was difficult to tell with that elf.

And then there was Garrett, who’d gone and fallen in love with someone who wasn’t even himself anymore.

Anders had judged things wrongly, earlier. This wasn’t a romance novel: it was an _epic tragedy._

Perhaps worst of all was the fact that he hadn’t even found anything remotely useful thus far. He was sweating beneath his coat, and his tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, but he couldn’t leave for water. Not until he’d found something; he had to get out of here, out of this nightmare, while remaining rather glued to his chair in horror.

Toward the end of the notebook, the writing grew even more disjointed. Instead of propaganda, there seemed to be brief passages and paragraphs copied from other books. Vengeance had gone to some trouble, apparently, in order to smuggle in a few texts from Tevinter; he’d also copied down what seemed like the ingredients for some sort of ritual, though the exact terms of his end goal had been left coyly vague. Hiding even from himself, perhaps, or just so paranoid he had to keep everything secret, even in his own diary. When Anders read between the lines, the hints seemed to indicate it had _something_ to do with sundering—destruction, or undoing a creation. Maybe…his status as an abomination?

Anders didn’t dare to hope.

Something tickled at the back of his mind nonetheless, and he pulled out one of the loose papers he’d stolen from the clinic in Darktown. Just as he’d thought—it was another list of ingredients, although there were a few that didn’t match up between the book and the sheet.

Maybe whatever Vengeance had been looking into was what had disturbed the Veil and brought Anders here. If that was true, then the answer had to be _somewhere_ on these frenzied pages.

Anders read the list more carefully, his first instinct usually being to skim anything that appeared long and tedious, and grimaced with an audible noise of disgust when he came to _sela petrae_. If memory served, _that_ was something _he_ wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot staff, but Vengeance didn’t seem the type to be put off by a little crystallized piss and shit. Anders _hoped_ it wasn’t for a tincture or potion—something Vengeance would have to imbibe—then laughed at himself for quibbling over that, of all things, especially when he regularly drank what Corff was serving. This could just as easily have been a recipe _from_ Corff, all things considered.

There was drakestone below _sela petrae,_ another disturbingly visceral ingredient, and some other less notable elements, most of them familiar and not at all difficult to come by. One of the items was even common house soap—Anders had to wonder if this wasn’t just a shopping list, included amidst the other more serious manifestos, as though Vengeance was incapable of separating _any_ sectors of his life, and he lived, breathed, ate and bathed with his ideals.

But Anders truly didn’t want to know if the _sela petrae_ or the drakestone was behind all this—that meant he was going to have to gather some, and gathering some meant actually _touching_ some. With or without gloves, it would leave him feeling equally unclean. No one Anders knew would be devoted enough to anything to literally dig through fossilized shit, least of all Anders himself.

He would _never_.

It was something he’d have to tell Garrett about, though. ‘I learned my counterpart here had an affinity for petrified _turds_ ; were you aware of such an inclination while the two of you were sleeping together?’ wasn’t exactly subtle, even if it was funny, and when Anders imagined saying it, the whole image—the question itself, Garrett’s likely reaction, his own response, and so on—gave him a much needed giggle, inappropriate as it was.

With a sigh, Anders unfolded another of the loose pages—the same list, but with subtly different ingredients this time. The _sela petrae_ and the drakestone—since this was the way Anders’s life always worked—remained a constant, but instead of house soap and the other more commonplace bits and pieces, there were other, equally rare additions, like ‘drake scale’ and ‘darkstalker foreclaw’ and even ‘fire gland’ which sounded, somehow, more unsettling than anything else. After that were a few hurriedly dashed out question marks, which weren’t helpful, and once again painted the undeniable picture of a man on the verge of complete mental collapse. Maybe he’d run out of ideas for special, shit-related ingredients, and this was a reminder to himself to think up more for those few remaining blank notebook pages.

It seemed to Anders—if he was going to be serious about the whole affair, as much as he hated being serious about something _already_ so grave—that it might be worth looking into the disconnect between the two lists. None of it was particularly _right_ , all of it so very, very wrong, but it was possible at least one of these things held magical properties so foul and dangerous it had literally blasted Vengeance into another world. Maybe to punish him for being so stubbornly _weird_. And then, taking out two darkspawn with one cone of cold, it had also decided to punish Anders for all _his_ ill-advised indiscretions.

‘Well, Anders,’ Anders said after that, cringing once again that he was talking to himself. But he had no one else to talk to, and the room had been quiet save for the rustling of stiff pages for a while now, and it all reminded him too much of what Vengeance’s life must have been like: alone in a study with nothing but his feverish thoughts and parchment to accompany him. Maybe if he’d talked to himself more, he wouldn’t feel the need to write everything down.

Or maybe he talked to himself all the time, and Anders was manifesting some of his marginally less distressing traits.

‘Well, Anders,’ Anders repeated, refusing to let this vengeful shadow get to him, ‘you’ve done _something_. No one can tell you that you’ve been lazy. But now you really need to stop, otherwise you’ll go mad yourself—if you haven’t already. Haha. No, _that_ wasn’t very funny, was it?’

No one replied. The ugly statue—it looked to be Tevinter in origin, Anders guessed, with the same gaping mouth and googly eyes of lore—stared down at him, utterly judgmental.

‘No,’ Anders told it. ‘I don’t really care what you think. It must be so easy being a statue. You just _are_ ; you never have to think about it. So I rather believe you don’t get to judge.’

He half-expected Bodahn to jump out from somewhere and ask him if _Messere Anders was feeling quite all right today, then?_ or—even worse—Sandal might appear, melting from the shadows behind a bookcase, murmuring single words that had no relevance with the same bright, unfocused stare he always wore. But it was just Anders and the statue, and a bit of a staring contest Anders was doomed to lose, because statues never had to blink.

Anders folded up the list and tucked it into the notebook, then closed that and wrapped the worn leather strap around it, tying it in a knot, returning it to a special place—over his heart, beneath his shoulder feathers. It rested on him like a weight, like he always imagined the stones in a burial mound might feel.

All in all, he had this sensation of dirtiness, like he’d been prying, and hadn’t found anything _fun_ but rather all these sordid details that wouldn’t make good gossip, just depressing memories.

He needed to be clean again.

‘I don’t know about you, statue,’ Anders said, refusing to give the statue the satisfaction of a second glance as he left the study, ‘but _I’m_ going to take a nice, hot bath. Can’t do _that_ when you’re carved out of wood, now can you?’

*

Garrett’s mansion had a spectacular bathroom, clean white tile and an enormous porcelain tub, and house dwarves weren’t so bad when they were the ones carrying buckets of heated water to fill the bath for you. Anders made sure to lock the door—no interruptions from Sandal necessary during his special alone time in such a gloriously blissful place—stripped down to nothing, and got into water so refreshingly scalding he felt like all the worry was being burned clean off him.

He remained relaxing in the tub until he’d pruned all over, mind going blank, limbs numb with relaxation. Then he dressed again and dried off his hair with a towel and stared at himself in the mirror for a bit, preening, observing, grateful to see he really looked like himself all over, if a bit darker under the eyes than usual.

No stray gray hairs had sprouted since his unexpected arrival in an unfamiliar world, and he hadn’t spontaneously developed any new wrinkles from the stress. He was rather in need of a shave, but that was part of the _look_ he’d been cultivating back in Amaranthine. He ran his fingers over the stubble on his cheeks, contemplating the wisdom of the style. Coupled with the coat, and his apparent residence in Darktown, it all seemed a little _too_ scruffy. Maybe even _desperate_. He reminded himself of one of the many homeless refugees that had trickled into Amaranthine over the years; it was decidedly not the image he was going for, even if it did leave some kind of impression. However, Garrett didn’t appear to have a razor readily available. With some dismay, Anders realized he was going to have to make do, at least for the time being.

Clean, and therefore feeling more human and more comfortable in his own skin, Anders realized that he’d successfully wasted more than enough time; Garrett and Varric would already be waiting for him at the Hanged Man. He’d spent hours alone in a house that was unfamiliar to him, touching things that smelled of other-Garrett and reading things that had been written by other-Anders. It was difficult not to feel like he was losing a part of his own identity just by being here.

Would he continue to feel less like himself the longer he stayed? Anders wasn’t altogether sure that was a question he wanted answered.

At least he had one thing going for him. No Justice meant no Vengeance. So no matter what happened, he could thank the Maker he wasn’t an abomination.

The walk to Lowtown would help clear his head. Then, once they’d discussed all the more important matters at hand, Corff’s brew would go a long way toward muddling it again. Anders had no idea whether Garrett had found anything useful in the Black Emporium, or how fast Varric’s contacts worked, but he was confident they’d have a starting place no matter what. Anders wasn’t especially enthusiastic to go digging for _sela petrae_ , but it seemed the likeliest place to start searching for answers.

And he _was_ rather looking forward to seeing the looks on their faces when he told them what _sela petrae_ even was.

*

The Hanged Man was reliably crowded at any time of day. It was a comfortable place for a man to lose himself, although the _worst_ place for him to go if he’d just bathed and was enjoying the fresh scent of cleanliness. A familiar wall of odor hit Anders the instant he stepped over the threshold: the smell of too many bodies crammed into a low-rent establishment with windows too high-set for a proper cross-breeze. Anders didn’t quite understand how so many men and women could earn the money to drink here if they never went to their jobs.

Miraculously, the taproom _still_ smelled better than his clinic in Darktown.

Anders stepped over a drunk slumped beneath his table, and neatly skirted a group of raiders who seemed to be celebrating their latest kill—at least, if the blood smeared over their armor and streaked through their hair was any indication. Edwina gave him a friendly nod as she passed, and Anders offered her a tentative smile in return. It was incredibly isolating to know that she wasn’t being friendly because she recognized _him,_ but rather because he looked like someone she knew.

And, of course, because he was close to the Champion.

Eventually Anders was going to have to stop thinking about things in those terms. He’d drive himself mad if he didn’t. Although then perhaps he’d behave even more like the Other Anders, and people—himself included—wouldn’t have to feel so confused.

What he wanted now, he realized, was to see Garrett again. Anders had felt many different things in Garrett’s presence, but _like an impostor_ had never been one of them. He simply had a way of setting people at ease; it was a trait he shared with the Garrett Anders already knew, and apparently it was just as effective in this Kirkwall as it was anywhere else. Anders, at least, seemed to be permanently susceptible to its charms.

He climbed the stairs to Varric’s private rooms, allowing himself to hope that Varric wouldn’t be alone.

‘My mother used to say there are a lot more mages now than when she was a child,’ someone muttered, passing Anders in the hall. It was a strange man whose beard looked like something for wild animals to nest in. ‘ _I_ think it’s the lyrium in the water.’

‘Quite right,’ Anders agreed, giving him a wide berth as he wandered by. ‘I don’t know why I never thought of that before!’

The door to Varric’s room was ajar, and Anders could hear the low, familiar rumble of the dwarf’s voice from within. Garrett was sitting with his back to the entrance, bare arms folded behind his head. Something fluttered in Anders’s chest. It might have been anxiety. Or the dwarven-prepared meat from breakfast.

‘…searched that place top to bottom _with_ the antiquarian babbling his creaky nonsense at me the entire time,’ Garrett was saying.

Varric chuckled. ‘You weren’t trying to fondle Andraste again, were you, Hawke?’

‘I beg your _pardon?_ ’ Anders asked, entering the room. There was only a limited window of opportunity for a man to listen into a conversation before it became outright eavesdropping. Anders wasn’t looking to cross that line. At least, not right now he wasn’t. ‘Here I thought you were off braving life and limb to send me back to where I belong, and instead I learn you’re having a bit of fun, feeling up the Maker’s bride? I feel rather insulted. Or at the very least _upstaged._ ’

Garrett’s shoulders twitched together as he half-turned in his seat. ‘Anders.’

‘Blondie,’ Varric agreed. He waved one of his wide, gloved hands. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’

‘Varric, I thought you’d never ask,’ Anders said. He settled himself into one of the more comfortable looking chairs, with a fluffy cushion and a high back, and leaned forward on the table expectantly. ‘Well? What were we talking about before I came in? Tell me more about this Andraste, Garrett—is she just like all the statues, or is she _even_ prettier?’

‘Now, why couldn’t _our_ Blondie have _this_ Blondie’s sense of humor?’ Varric asked.

‘He does,’ Garrett replied, toying with one of his daggers, using the very sharp tip to pick something out from underneath his thumbnail. He glanced at Anders over the keen length of the blade, then looked away. ‘Just…occasionally.’

‘I never stop,’ Anders told him helpfully. ‘And, you’ll be horrified to learn this, Varric, but my friends so often wish I _would_.’

Varric snorted in disdain. ‘I tell you, some people don’t know a good thing unless it’s slapping ‘em right on the ass.’

‘Oh,’ Anders murmured. ‘I even do that, too, whenever the urge strikes. But enough about me. I take it from all this good-natured chatter no one found a solution, but Garrett, at least, seems to have found Andraste? So the day wasn’t a _complete_ waste, then.’

‘You take it right,’ Varric confirmed. ‘The people I’m dealing with are gonna have to dig a little deeper, so they’re gonna need more time. The Imperium wasn’t built in a day, so they tell me.’

‘And I hate the Black Emporium,’ Garrett reminded them, ‘ _but_ I _did_ sacrifice my own personal comfort, and spent an hour there talking to Xenon. _An hour._ And the best part is, it took him that long just to say a single sentence. I only asked him one question.’

‘My sympathies,’ Varric said. ‘Why don’t you put your poor, weary head right on my shoulder and I’ll sing you a lullaby to help you sleep at night.’

Garrett bowed his head in thanks. ‘Varric, you’re too good to me.’

‘Of course I am,’ Varric replied. ‘Somebody’s gotta be.’

Watching them interact was absolutely fascinating. Anders rested his chin against the heels of his palms, fingers curled and tucked against his lips, unabashedly staring. The two worked together like a well-oiled water clock, telling perfect time. Garrett had clearly known the dwarf the longest of anyone, and Varric, in his own way, was surprisingly tender with him, with _all_ of them, like a squat mother hen looking after a brood of mismatched ducklings. Not even chicks, just a few hapless little ones he’d picked up on his travels. They weren’t even his children. Anders couldn’t imagine being that understanding of his own _real_ family; this side of Varric was completely unlike the ruthless merchant he’d known back home.

‘Yes, but are you sure you’ve got room on your shoulder, what with all that head up there already?’ Garrett asked.

 _Magnificent,_ Anders thought.

‘All right, all right, not in front of the new guy,’ Varric said, waving his hand. ‘What you’re saying is you’ve got nothing, is that it? The great Champion of Kirkwall, coming back empty-handed?’

Garrett held up said empty hands, dagger now resting on the table before him. ‘Nothing but Xenon’s dulcet tones ringing in my ears,’ he said. ‘Remarkably like a headache, now that I really think about it.’

Anders waited for them to turn to him, on the edge of his seat, giddy like it was Satinalia and it was the Warden Commander’s turn to gift him with his very own something special. The Warden Commander, despite being the mysterious, silent type—not one for sharing jokes, not normally the sort Anders spent much time with because the lack of laughter at appropriate moments made him feel judged—always gave the _best_ presents. That was _really_ why Anders missed him.

But Garrett and Varric didn’t turn to him; they were too caught up in this little dance they were doing, and Anders was _almost_ as caught up in it as they were.

‘Poor thing,’ Varric said, eyes sparkling as he grinned. ‘But hey—that free shoulder offer still stands. Anytime you’re ready.’

‘No, Varric, I simply can’t accept,’ Garrett said. ‘Once I have my first taste of such unadulterated bliss, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to live without it again. I can’t do that to you, and I _certainly_ can’t do that to myself.’

‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times,’ Varric said, ‘the two of us just wouldn’t work out. We’d be too damn _happy_ all the time.’

‘I could use a little happiness,’ Garrett mused. ‘Not to mention how badly I’ve always wanted to run my fingers through that—’

‘ _Maker_ ,’ Anders interrupted, unable to take it anymore, ‘you two _are_ laying it on thick, aren’t you? I don’t know how this other me stands being the third man out in the midst of such stultifying sexual tension!’

Varric and Garrett turned to Anders like they’d forgotten he was even there; Garrett was the first to capitulate, clearing his throat to hide his laughter.

‘It’s perfectly natural,’ he explained. ‘What happens when an irresistible force meets an even more irresistible dwarf.’

‘Sparks fly,’ Varric agreed. ‘So tell us, Blondie—did _you_ find anything?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Anders said, straightening importantly in his seat, ‘I _did_ , and thank you very much, Varric, for finally asking.’

‘Well, would you listen to that,’ Varric said. He leaned forward in his chair, yet still somehow managed to make it look like he was casually reclining. ‘For once those nug-brained notes of yours—sorry, _his_ —were actually of use to someone. I’d take it all back, except I’m never wrong about anything.’

‘ _Anyway,_ ’ Anders said, masterfully steering the conversation back toward him, ‘I’m not even sure if it’s anything of note, but your Anders was working on some kind of recipe. I have no idea _what_ it was for, but the words that are used—for example, ‘sundering,’ which is rather pointed, don’t you think?—seem to me to have something to do with this little Justice problem of his.’

‘Justice problem of everyone’s,’ Varric corrected. Garrett gave him a look, and he coughed neatly into the palm of his hand. ‘I mean, keep going, Blondie. Tell us what you’ve got.’

‘You think he was trying to…separate himself from Justice?’ Garrett asked. His voice was sharp, his gaze even sharper, and Anders, not one for nervous fidgeting, nervously fidgeted nonetheless. Garrett was just so _serious_ about this, so intent—it was hard not to be overwhelmed when you were the focus of so much passion.

‘That is, generally, what sundering means,’ Anders said, being an ass to cover up his discomfort. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard of… _un_ -becoming an abomination, but it makes the most sense, doesn’t it? He can’t possibly _want_ to stay the way he is. He must have seen it was a mistake.’

‘…Perhaps,’ Garrett said, but he didn’t sound at all convinced.

‘I’m sure it’s inevitable,’ Anders said. Having experienced his brush with Vengeance—at least, with Vengeance’s writings—he was perhaps a little too eager to prove _he_ was different. The lighter side of demonic possession. ‘You wake up one morning and you realize you’ve taken a spirit into your body and changed yourself irreparably, and for what? Who are you _really_ going to affect—a host of strangers and some overzealous templars? Life’s too short. There are _house dwarves_ and rashers of bacon and large estates and _Champions_ to appreciate.’

‘You’re sure you don’t want to just…I don’t know, keep this one?’ Varric asked, looking to Garrett.

‘That’s not funny,’ Garrett said. Once again, he put his dagger down on the table—a gesture Anders was quite grateful for; all that playing with knives seemed depraved somehow—and leaned forward. ‘You think that he tried to do something without telling any of us? And whatever it was he _was_ doing, whatever spell, is what brought you here?’

‘Well…’ Anders began, choosing his words more carefully now. Less flippant. Under the combined scrutiny of Garrett _and_ Varric, it suddenly seemed important not to look like he wasn’t taking this seriously. ‘If he was looking to make himself whole again…seeking to capture some _essence_ of Anders…it’s possible that something went awry with the process and it dragged me here instead.’ Anders paused to gesture to himself with both hands, just in case they were having difficulty following. ‘And here I am! Ta-da! Anders, in all my essence-y glory.’

‘Except _he_ disappeared,’ Garrett observed.

‘All right; so more than just one thing went awry,’ Anders admitted. He reached into his coat to pull out the notebook and present his findings. Before he could open his mouth, he glanced around the table and fell silent. An ashen look had fallen over Garrett’s face, which made it somewhat difficult for Anders to focus. ‘…Was it something I said?’

‘Do you think he’s there?’ Garrett asked. His voice sounded haunted, fraught with the mere idea that the answer to his question might be ‘yes.’ Or maybe he was just feeling guilty for not coming to such a conclusion earlier. Anders didn’t know him well enough to be able to read him by looks alone. There were enough subtle differences between this Garrett and _his_ Garrett that he didn’t feel confident in making quick assumptions. ‘In your world, I mean. Without…’

 _Me._ Somehow, despite his lack of confidence, Anders found it simple enough to finish _that_ particular sentence.

‘Without all of us to watch his back and laugh at his terrible jokes, you mean?’ Varric asked, choosing his moment wisely. Anders remembered that about Varric from home. He always had excellent timing when It came to stepping in, or ruining other people’s jokes.

‘…I think it’s probably best to concentrate on the facts we _do_ have,’ Anders said, as gently as possible. He opened the book, unfolding the list within and spread it out with trembling fingers. He wasn’t used to being the one in charge, or even the one who brought others back from their conversational tangents. It wasn’t a role that suited him, for reasons that ought to have been obvious by now to anyone who knew him. It was just far too much responsibility.

But, if he had to choose, Anders would still take his position over Garrett’s. He was toying with his dagger again, tapping the blade-point lazily at the gaps between his fingers.

‘All right, Blondie,’ Varric said. He seemed to have caught onto Garrett’s growing mental distress, and therefore committed himself to helping Anders move things along. ‘Why don’t you tell us what you’ve got?’

*

What Anders had, of course, amounted to a list of mostly excrement-based ingredients, all of which Garrett and Varric had never heard of until that very evening. Anders couldn’t help but wonder whether the _other_ Garrett might have been more help, being a mage himself, but there was little point in pursuing that train of thought, since Other Garrett was off with Vengeance Anders, possibly, probably, and Anders had This Garrett, and so on and so forth.

If he was going to wish for Garrett to be here, he might as well just wish himself back home. Both notions would be equally productive.

Anders also had to push aside the knowledge that he didn’t know for certain what he had was even remotely relevant. Whatever Vengeance had been working on, he’d been ridiculously cagey about it from start to finish, even in his own notes. And, even if they managed to collect all the ingredients, there was no indication of how to use them. It really _could_ have been a potion—something Anders himself would have to drink—and there was no warning, no way to prepare himself in advance for the taste or the smell or the knowledge of _drinking liquid shit._

If he focused on the negative, however, they’d never get anywhere. It was obvious that Vengeance had been planning _something,_ and it probably wasn’t this, which therefore meant his plans had gone terribly wrong. Anders was starting to believe that his moment of extemporizing had hit upon some deeper truth: that, in trying to return to a Justice-less state, Vengeance had accidentally conjured another version of himself entirely, from a point when he’d never joined with Justice to begin with. Or from a Thedas where that was never going to happen.

Maker, but all this was complicated. The more he thought about it, the more his brain was starting to feel like mutton gravy, which was why Anders was more than happy to slide the notes across the table to Varric, and let him take a closer look at the problem, while Anders rested his poor, aching, overworked head.

Garrett had abandoned his fidgeting to sit with his own head clutched in his hands. Every now and then he’d grunt when he was addressed directly, just to let them both know he hadn’t died, but aside from that he might as well have been asleep where he sat.

Anders could hear his breathing, ragged and deep, from the end of the table. He wished he was sitting just a wee bit closer, so that he could take Garrett’s hand or touch his leg or do something equally comforting.

‘Garrett,’ Anders whispered. ‘Garrett, what are you doing?’

‘I’m thinking,’ Garrett replied.

Anders waited a few more moments, then grew bored of watching Varric—who did look adorable with his tiny little reading glasses perched on his nose—pore over so much parchment.

‘When you think it looks like you’re dying,’ Anders said.

‘That’s because all the things I have to think about are rather _similar_ to dying,’ Garrett told him. ‘And I should know what dying feels like. _I_ fought the _Arishok_.’

Anders scooted infinitesimally closer. ‘The way you described that event made it sound far too heroic to involve anything close to you dying.’

‘Is that how I put it?’ Garrett lifted his head from his hands. He looked very tired, very pinched, very lonely, and his shoulders were slumped like he was carrying all of Kirkwall, from Hightown to Lowtown, just on top of them. Maybe he was. Maybe that was what it meant to be Champion. Wretched business, if Anders was being blunt about it. ‘I must have left out the best part: all the _impaling._ ’

‘You were impaled by an Arishok?’ Anders whistled. ‘I’ll have to tell my Garrett to avoid that if he can. It doesn’t _sound_ very pleasant.’

‘Oh, no,’ Garrett said, some of the color coming back to his face. That was excellent; it meant Anders’s distraction tactic was working. ‘You really haven’t lived until you’ve been impaled by an Arishok. You ought to try it sometime. Gives you a newfound appreciation for the rest of your life spent somewhere other than skewered on an enormous qunari blade.’

‘Why, Garrett, how extremely naughty,’ Anders said. ‘I never knew you were the type.’

‘Would the two of you stop chatting away like the tavern gossips you are?’ Varric said, not looking up from his reading. ‘I swear, it’s worse than trying to get good writing done when you’re living next to a nug farm.’

‘And you’d know, being a dwarf and all,’ Anders said, never one to avoid getting the last word in. Then, he fell obediently silent, knee bumping against Garrett’s underneath the table.

Something was wrong with Garrett; Anders didn’t know what. He wanted to ask outright, but that seemed like a bad idea, especially given how fussy Varric was being. And also, they had more important things to talk about, like the spell and the mix-up and the rules of the Maker being defied and all that. Anders jiggled his leg, and Garrett put out a hand to still him, and that meant Garrett’s hand was on his thigh, and Anders was distracted all over again.

‘All right,’ Varric said. ‘I’ll get my people to look into all of this—once we know where to find the ingredients, we can get started.’

‘How long?’ Garrett asked. ‘Varric, how long will it take?’

‘I’ll light a fire under their asses,’ Varric promised. ‘I’ll make ‘em feel like they’re dangling over the _lava_ end of a forge, all right? I’ll make it quick, don’t give me that look.’

Garrett’s face eased. ‘What look?’ he asked. ‘I know you’re the fastest dwarf in all of Thedas. How could I _ever_ doubt _you_ , Varric?’

‘I already said I’d be using the Flames themselves to make this happen, Hawke,’ Varric told him. ‘So unpucker those lips and get away from my asshole.’

‘Eugh,’ Anders said. ‘Once again, I can’t imagine Other Anders was ever _not_ jealous of the special bond the two of you share.’

Varric rolled up the main list, then pocketed it and the notebook, settling both into a dewy nest of chest-hair. ‘It’s purely platonic, I assure you. I’ll have what I can for you by tomorrow afternoon, dead latest. Now for Andraste’s sake, Hawke, buy yourself some whiskey. You look like something Corff scraped off the bottom of the barrel. What if somebody _saw_ you making that face? Nobody’d listen to a word of my stories anymore. _The Remains of the Champion of Kirkwall_ just doesn’t have the right ring to it.’

‘I think it sounds catchy,’ Anders said.

‘Get this man a drink,’ Varric insisted. ‘It always worries me when I see him look so damn thoughtful, and you all know how I simply _hate_ worrying.’

*

They got suitably pissed, just the three of them, Varric telling wild stories about Vengeance’s inappropriate behavior, the things he’d said with templars _right there_ in front of him, some of his less successful manifesto readings, and so on and so forth. It all gave Anders an acute sense of second-hand embarrassment, but it was also incredibly funny, and after Garrett had numbed his distress with more of Corff’s ale, he was laughing, too. Even if it was half at Anders’s expense, Anders didn’t really mind. Garrett obviously needed it.

Once again, there was no one but the house dwarves and the mabari to greet them when they returned home; once again, Garrett led Anders to the bedroom, and Anders was drunk enough and selfish enough to accept the comfort of the bed while Garrett took the couch that was still, and would always be, too small for him.

They’d both chosen to deal with this the same way: taking care of business by day, suppressing all their feelings by drinking at night. And Anders had no complaints, not really, even if he still wanted answers, his curiosity getting the better of his finer instincts, to deflect, deflect, deflect.

‘Why did you get so moody, Garrett?’ Anders asked, already half asleep.

‘Because you don’t know how to take care of yourself,’ Garrett replied.

Later, Anders wasn’t sure if it was a dream or something that had really happened.

Another morning came; another hangover. Garrett was up more quickly this time, stalking from room to room, the dog trailing at his heels, while Anders took another bath and tried not to wait too anxiously for news from Varric.

‘Varric said the _afternoon_ ,’ Anders reminded Garrett, for probably the thousandth time, watching him pace by the study doorway. Anders, on the other hand, had chosen to lie back on the couch, trying to make it comfortable, but no matter which angle he chose, no matter how he folded his legs and his arms, no matter how he twisted his neck, it just wasn’t working for him.

‘Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get up to on your own?’ Garrett demanded. ‘You _heard_ Varric’s stories last night. At least, I think Varric told stories. I distinctly remember… Anyway, none of that matters now.’

‘I think I have _some_ idea the amount of trouble I can get up to,’ Anders told him. ‘And it’s quite a lot, a fact I’m actually somewhat proud of. A little trouble’s good for a man, every now and then.’

‘No,’ Garrett said. ‘I don’t mean looking up the wrong person’s skirts at the Rose or accidentally insulting the mother of a city guard. You’re dangerous to yourself; _someone_ needs to look after you.’

Anders managed to feel both touched and infantilized at exactly the same time. ‘I’m sure he’s being careful,’ he said, looking away.

‘And _I’m_ sure he isn’t,’ Garrett replied, and continued to pace.

There wasn’t much Anders could say in response to that. He didn’t know Other Anders, not the way Garrett did. He knew Vengeance, just a little, by his writings, but there had to be more to him; what Anders had seen wasn’t at all lovable. Not the sort of person you slept with _once_ , much less regularly.

It came down to the fact that he just didn’t have the experience dealing with him. And Anders didn’t like to offer meaningless reassurances.

‘You’re overreacting,’ Anders told Garrett. He stretched out on the couch, attempting to give off the appearance of perfect elegance. He’d finally resorted to moving one of the cushions from beneath his legs to behind his head. So far, it had made the couch marginally more comfortable.

‘Oh?’ Garrett asked. He sounded dangerously close to laughing, but thankfully managed to rein it in. ‘You read his manifesto, and you can still say that? He used to stuff copies into all the books in my library, you know. I’d be looking for a little light reading and out would drop one of those from the pages of _Dane and the Werewolf_.’

‘There were _copies_?’ Anders asked, horrified. Then, he realized that Garrett was attempting to distract him, and got right back to the point. ‘He’ll be fine. _Garrett’s_ with him.’

‘But _I’m_ not—’ Garrett said, then stopped.

‘You don’t know yourself like I do,’ Anders said wisely. It was just the sort of thing he’d always wanted to say, a line stolen straight from the Warden Commanders and First Enchanters of the world. ‘Garrett is nothing if not capable of dealing with a few eccentricities.’ Then, with the same air Isabela might use to tell someone she had a _twin sister_ waiting for them right upstairs, he added, ‘He’s a mage, in my world.’

‘Oh,’ Garrett said. He blinked, looking quickly toward Anders, then away again. ‘So he might…he might understand, then.’

‘Better than most, I should think,’ Anders agreed, cheerfully. He cocked his head at an angle that made his neck scream in agony, then quickly thought the better of it. ‘What’s that look for?’

‘Nothing,’ Garrett said immediately. Then his shoulders slumped in knowing defeat. ‘I…think I’m jealous of myself,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a strange predicament to be in, to say the least.’

‘You get used to it,’ Anders advised. He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle, choosing to leave the hidden meaning of that up to Garrett’s discretion. He could figure it out or not; it wasn’t exactly subtle, but at the moment Garrett was clearly very much in his own head, not in the mood or the mind-space to branch out.

Garrett paused in his pacing and lifted a hand; his mouth opened, and his head twitched like a bird’s, shooting Anders a quizzical look.

‘You aren’t—’ he began.

‘Serah Tethras here to see you, messeres,’ Bodahn called up the stairs. A bolt of disappointment lashed through Anders like a whip-crack, followed by the more _sensible_ reaction of anticipation.

He’d never get to know what Garrett was going to say now, but there was a chance Varric’s contacts had come back with real information. Surely _that_ was more important than practicing his flirting skills with a Garrett he really _shouldn’t_ have been flirting with.

Garrett bolted from the room like Anders had lit a fireball to his ass, hurrying down the stairs to meet Varric. It was obvious to see _he_ wasn’t experiencing any unexpected feelings about the mix-up. He wanted things set to right; he wanted the Anders who belonged here back, in his house and sharing his bed. If only so Garrett could _also_ get his bed back, presumably.

That, too, was a noble cause.

After a moment of being childish, Anders followed him. He stood on the second-floor landing as Garrett led Varric in; Varric was looking exceedingly pleased with himself, which Anders took to mean he must have found something.

‘Did you know there are fingerprints on your chandelier, Garrett?’ Anders called down. ‘I’d love to hear how you managed that one!’

‘Sandal,’ Garrett called back, by way of explanation.

Of course it was. _Chandelier_ he’d say, or something like _Excitement!_ while flying above the foyer. Anders didn’t know why he’d bothered to ask.

‘Now, I’ve got some good news and some bad news,’ Varric said, speaking just loud enough that Anders could hear him, even from up on high. He seemed smaller all the way down there on the first floor, but the angle made his head look positively _enormous._ His chest hair glistened heroically in the firelight.

Anders leaned on the banister, all misgivings melting away, feeling positively alive with a hopeful eagerness. ‘Don’t keep us all in suspense, Varric!’

‘That’s what he does,’ Garrett said. ‘It’s all part of telling a good story.’

‘You’re giving away _trade secrets_ to someone who might be able to share them with another Varric?’ Varric asked. ‘Hawke, you wound me.’

‘What did you find?’ Garrett asked, completely undaunted.

‘Let me answer that question with another question,’ Varric offered. ‘How’s that Bone Pit of yours doing, these days?’

‘You _own_ the _Bone Pit?_ ’ Anders asked, suitably appalled by the revelation.

‘It’s a mine,’ Garrett said. ‘And _I_ certainly didn’t name it.’

Anders still couldn’t quite wrap his brain around it. ‘But—people willingly go to work in a place called the _Bone Pit_?’

‘They’re refugees _and_ they’re Fereldan,’ Varric explained. ‘It’s either that, or not working, period.’

‘Well I know which one _I’d_ choose,’ Anders sniffed.

‘They _don’t_ willingly go to work there, either,’ Garrett admitted. ‘The number of times I’ve had to go there myself—it’s shocking, really. Maybe we _should_ rename it. Varric, any ideas?’

‘Later,’ Varric said. ‘’Cause for the purposes of _this_ story, we’re heading to the Bone Pit right now.’

‘Why?’ Garrett and Anders asked in unison. They really shouldn’t have; it was playing right into Varric’s hands like soft, unmolded putty.

Varric took a moment for the sake of dramatic suspense. ‘To find ourselves some drakestone,’ he said.

*

The three of them headed to the infamous Bone Pit with—of all people— _Fenris_ in tow. Because what Anders had always wanted was to embark on a dangerous journey through the tunnels of the ominously-named _Bone Pit_ with a murderous, broadsword-wielding elf in spiky armor who clearly hated him already. One swing and Anders’s delicate mage body would be crushed completely, _and_ Fenris could so easily make it all look like an accident, a miscalculation of the width of a tunnel. If he _was_ killed in the tunnels, Anders hoped there would be a massive funeral, with a glorious bonfire, and archers and lutists, and much weeping and rending of garments. He told Garett as much, and Garrett snorted.

‘He hasn’t killed you yet,’ he replied. ‘It’s been a while. He’s certainly wanted to. That’s a testament to his restraint, if nothing else.’

Somehow, Anders wasn’t reassured.

He wasn’t looking forward to explaining what drakestone was to the rest of this merry band, either, since Fenris already wanted him dead and Garrett was in a jittery mood; only Varric and Anders were attempting to keep everyone’s spirits up, a thankless job that wasn’t even working the way it was supposed to. Anders hated failure; he grew _bored_ with failure, but Varric was a veritable machine of bad jokes and even worse puns, and that, at the very least, was delightful.

‘What has two legs, no common sense, and covers itself in feathers come mating season?’ Varric asked.

From in front of them, Anders heard a dry cough of a laugh. ‘A fine joke, dwarf,’ Fenris said. ‘But the mage is _always_ wearing feathers.’

Anders grinned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fenris. _Everyone_ knows the answer to _that_ one is: _an Orlesian._ ’

‘Got it in one,’ Varric said.

Something told Anders Fenris wouldn’t be such a fan of the joke now that it had been further explained to him.

‘According to the directions left by my forebears,’ Anders said, a few more paces in, fussing with the list Varric had returned to him, ‘we need a ‘scraping from the deepest part.’’ He tried not to make a face at the thought; in the darkness of the mine shaft, his companions couldn’t see him anyway.

Good. Anders wanted this to be the very _best_ surprise _ever._

They found their first drakestone sampling some half-hour and twenty-five Orlesian jokes later, buried under a pile of rubble, looking suitably rank.

‘That…is not what I was expecting,’ Fenris said, as Anders took a deep breath and poked it with the bottom of his staff, to make sure it was at least hard. It was, but Anders still didn’t touch it.

‘It doesn’t look like a rock at all,’ Garrett agreed, bending down to pick it up. ‘Or—well, like stone, I suppose.’

‘Yes, funny story, that,’ Anders said. ‘Actually, here’s one for you: What has eight legs, no common sense, and can be found foraging through dragon feces? I’ll give you a hint: It’s us right now!’

At the very least, _Varric_ laughed, though he later refused to touch the stuff, which probably contributed to his continued good humor.

*

They were out of the mines long after sunset with a bounty of drakestone wrapped in cloth, so no one had to touch it directly. They’d also had to engage in battle with a truly absurd number of giant spiders along the way, with Fenris—who, Anders had only just discovered, _had tattoos made of raw lyrium,_ and why had no one thought to tell Anders this, no _wonder_ he was so very cranky all the time—acting as their vanguard. Varric stood in the back with Anders, both of them tossing catchy battle cries around like bits of Satinalia candy, even though the spiders couldn’t exactly appreciate their superior wit and class. Garrett moved like a shadow, disappearing from place in one moment, appearing directly at a spiders’ back in the next, daggers plunged deep into their fleshy, round bodies, hacking off legs without pause or care for the dark spider blood that gushed over his face. Anders kept them healed—it was a matter of personal pride, one of very few such matters Anders bothered with, that no one should have to use some silly little _potion_ while _he_ was around—and occasionally froze some of the larger ones, whereupon Fenris ably shattered them in a single, massive blow. As useful as Oghren, that one. Just far less charming. And a lot more _glowy._

‘And here I thought being locked in a primeval thaig by your dear brother Bartrand was the worst thing that could happen to me in Kirkwall,’ Garrett said. ‘But now I’ve fought giant spiders for the wonderful prize of _calcified dragon shit._ Will wonders _never_ cease?’

There was a streak of wet spider-blood on his cheek, and Anders reached out, unthinking, to wipe it off.

‘Never say never,’ he suggested. ‘The Maker is _always_ listening, according to some, and according to others—far wittier others, like, for example, myself—he has a sinister sense of humor.’

Fenris ranged about, always twitchily, and Anders realized a moment too late he was actually copying the bizarre posture and jerking of muscles—subconsciously; it was all just so _fascinating._ He stopped the moment Fenris rounded on him; then, Fenris looked away, heavy, dark brows knitted tightly together.

‘Is there something you’d like to say, Fenris?’ Anders asked, hoping it was something along the lines of _thank you for healing me in battle no less than twelve times today, Anders_ and _I was wrong about you; you really are a pleasant addition to my life._

‘You are a far better healer than _he_ ,’ Fenris said, with a bitterness that made it sound nothing like gratitude, or even a compliment.

But, given the orders for health potions on Garrett’s desk, it wasn’t all that surprising.

‘Damn, Blondie,’ Varric said. ‘You wouldn’t know it, but that’s one heck of a compliment, coming from the elf.’

‘Do not give him ideas, dwarf,’ Fenris warned.

‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s far too late for that,’ Anders told them. ‘I’ve already got all _kinds_ of ideas. In fact, I may need to start writing them down. Say, do any of you know how one goes about beginning a manifesto? Because I already know how _not_ to write one.’

*

By the time Varric told them he’d found the perfect place to begin collection of their _sela petrae_ , Anders had already braced himself for the inevitable shock, horror, and disgust. It was almost mean, knowing what he did, yet still allowing the others to go in completely unprepared. But Anders enjoyed being an observer.

And he had to get his kicks in somewhere.

‘The sewers,’ Garrett said, as Varric led them all through the smoggy streets of Darktown.

It was strange for Anders to realize that they hadn’t been back to the place since his nervous insistence that they leave. He wondered whether anyone would recognize him, whether they’d demand to know why he hadn’t been staffing the clinic or helping the unwashed masses of late. Sometimes he felt guilty. Most times, he felt relieved.

‘ _Darktown’s_ sewers,’ Aveline clarified. For whatever reason—Anders couldn’t _imagine_ why—Fenris had made himself distinctly unavailable for this little trip. In his absence, they needed someone else who was skilled with a broadsword; preferably someone who was also skilled in taking the brunt of a full-frontal assault onto their shield.

Aveline certainly met those criteria. Anders felt quite safe cowering bravely behind her while throwing out healing spells.

‘The entrance is right here,’ Varric said. He seemed to be in a jolly mood. Anders got the impression that they were alike enough to both enjoy the buildup to the moment Garrett realized they were looking for shit yet again.

Varric kicked open the nearby trapdoor, then squinted down into the dark below. There was a ladder of dubious quality leading into the pit, one side of it covered in dried green slime and a lovely trellis of thick, fuzzy mold.

Anders didn’t know whether to pray it would hold, or to hope that the rungs would snap and he’d break his neck. It _might_ get him out of this world, but it likely wouldn’t take him _home_ , either. On the other hand, there was the prospect of digging through more of the myriad varieties of refuse Thedas had to offer. Obviously, it was a lose-lose situation. A very tough call. Anders’s life in a nutshell.

Garrett peered down into the sewer, eyes already watering at the smell. He coughed, but to his credit, he didn’t cover his nose, like he’d done this sewer thing before. ‘You’re sure this was an actual list of ingredients? And not just some… I don’t know, an elaborate revenge fantasy? Things he wanted the templars to collect?’

‘I’m told they sell _sela petrae_ in all the best mage goods shops in Tevinter,’ Anders said. ‘We could stand to learn a thing or two from the Imperium when it comes to convenience.’

‘Don’t let Fenris hear you say that,’ Aveline cautioned.

‘Don’t tell me he’s an escaped _slave_ on top of everything else,’ Anders quipped. The stories of the elven slave trade in Tevinter were legendary, of course, but Anders had never met one of those slaves in person.

Everyone quickly looked away. Garrett himself started down into the sewer passage, apparently willing to breathe in thick, brown air just to get away from the conversation.

‘ _Really?_ ’ Anders asked, in disbelief. ‘Not really… How could no one think to mention _that_ to me earlier? Oh, I’ve been _so_ inappropriate.’

‘Face it, Blondie,’ Varric said, clapping him somewhat low on the back. ‘You stepped in it.’

‘Not yet,’ Anders sniffed. He took another look down into the tunnel, then grudgingly began to follow in Aveline’s wake. ‘Although I’ve no doubt _someone_ will, before the day’s out.’

*

If there was one thing that could be said for the sewers of Darktown, it was this: They were _not_ crammed full of poisonous spiders looking to suck their guts out.

No; even the spiders refused to take up residence in an area so foul.

Anders had to try and look on the positive side, because the reality of what the sewers _were_ crammed full of didn’t bear thinking about. He literally couldn’t bear it.

‘I hate Anders,’ Anders announced, gagging beneath his handkerchief as he attempted to locate the tell-tale crystals hidden in their cocoon of piss and shit. ‘I just want you all to know. From one Anders to another, that man is not well. In fact, I’d venture so far as to say he’s _insane._ ’

‘He isn’t,’ Garrett said. He plucked the handkerchief from Anders’s fingers and crouched down, rooting through the refuse like he dealt with much worse on a daily basis. Maybe he did. Only Anders couldn’t actually believe that, because then Garrett would be the one on the verge of total mental collapse. And maybe _he_ was. ‘It’s Justice, that’s all. He’s trying to do the right thing. _This_ should show you he’s trying, if nothing else.’

Anders did his best not to look at Garrett’s proffered prize. He didn’t want to think about it, much less see it dangling in front of his nose.

‘You owe me a new handkerchief,’ Anders said instead.

‘This _really_ takes the cake, Hawke,’ Aveline observed. She’d dispatched a group of bandits who’d attacked them earlier, but her good mood from dishing out street justice was rapidly dissipating.

‘Please don’t ruin cake for me,’ Anders begged. ‘There are so few things I’ll be able to eat after this. Anything in gravy, for example. Ground meat. …Corn.’

Varric was wheezing with laughter. At least one of them was enjoying himself. Anders wouldn’t have expected it from the dwarf; he was the closest to the action, after all.

*

They found three more samples with Anders’s poor, unfulfilled, unfinished life flashing before his very eyes the whole way; they also found other types of shit, unfortunately _not_ petrified and returning to some primeval liquid state, and lots of garbage, all of it rotting merrily, and a few more groups of raiders whom Anders pitied even though they were ruthlessly attacking them on sight. Aveline bashed and roared, Garrett ducked and stabbed, Varric whistled and rained volleys of arrows down onto his enemies, and Anders cast the same quick spells as always while attempting to decide whether the sewers of Darktown or the Deep Roads of anywhere were worse.

Deep Roads had darkspawn. Darkspawn usually trumped everything. But the sewers were sewers, and that put it _right_ up there as a major contender.

Garrett, meanwhile, was like a saint of old; he collected the _sela petrae_ dutifully, with Anders’s handkerchief as a necessary sacrifice for the task, wrapping each sample up in the cloth and keeping them in an old leather satchel.

‘I can’t _believe_ how lucky Anders is,’ Anders pouted, falling back with Varric as Aveline finished off another intrepid raider and Garrett collected a fourth sample. ‘I mean, _really_ , it’s just not fair. He makes a deal with a spirit, becomes an abomination, alienates all and sundry by having so many _issues_ all the time, yet the Champion of Kirkwall goes digging through the sewers for—well, _you_ know, there’s only so many _times_ in one day I can use the word shit before it loses all meaning—without so much as batting an eye, all to rescue him from _my_ less-enviable life.’

‘Sounds to me like someone’s jealous,’ Varric said. ‘Hey, doesn’t that just feel weird? Being jealous of yourself?’

‘Oh, Varric, you have _no_ idea,’ Anders said.

*

They arrived back at the estate in one piece, though they’d never be clean again, and Garrett had the nerve, the sheer audacity, to suggest Anders be the first to bathe. He was too good to live, certainly too good for Vengeance, absolutely too good for Anders, and Anders, being who he was, accepted the offer immediately, leaping fully-clothed into the tub, then demanding it be filled again because the water turned, not unexpectedly, green and brown. In _chunks._

After two long baths and using up an entire bar and a half of soap, Anders snuck from the bathroom to find Garrett dead asleep on the couch again, still dirty, limp as a bag of bones. He smelled so terrible even the mabari was staying away from him.

Anders scratched the dog on its noble, wrinkly head; he was wrapped in three towels, one of which approximated a sort of cape, and leaving damp footprints on the wood panels below his feet. The mabari licked his palm and sneezed—it was all the soap—and Anders sighed, daintily tiptoeing out of the study, leaving Garrett to his rest.

‘Messere Hawke barely sleeps anymore, you know,’ Bodahn told him while Anders munched something resembling supper in the kitchen. The dwarf was wearing a large red apron with frills, obviously not his—hopefully not his—and roasting more meat in a pan, while Sandal was stirring a large pot of something bubbling and brown that Anders really couldn’t allow himself to think about, after the day he’d had.

‘It’s difficult being Champion, I’d imagine,’ Anders said lightly, though he felt a pang of something dangerously close to sympathy—or indigestion; the two were so similar—lance through his chest. Anders hated sympathy. It made him feel like he was coming down with something tickly in his throat, worse than a cold, far more persistent. ‘At least he has you two to look after him, and the dog. Mabari. Whatever it is. Here you go, Droolface; have some meat.’

Though mabari were supposedly preternaturally intelligent, the one in question turned its wet nose up to Anders’s hand lovingly, accepting the peace offering. Maybe it _was_ smart enough to know it was being insulted, but also smart enough to be bribed with tasty treats.

‘Oh, messere, it’s a terrible thing,’ Bodahn sighed. What was it with dwarves and mothering people? Why had Oghren never tried to mother _him_? Anders was saddened that his very first prolonged experience with the dwarven lifestyle had been with one of the belching variety, and not the loving, baking, apron-wearing types he’d been introduced to here. ‘If only his dear mother were still here. But we mustn’t mention it; Messere Hawke hears _everything_ , you know.’

‘Not when he’s sleeping he can’t,’ Anders said.

‘ _Especially_ then,’ Bodahn replied.

It was exactly the sort of bizarre superstition that made Anders choke on a mouthful of mutton and excuse himself; it was late and his legs were sore and he could still smell the sewer on him, in his hair, when he turned his face against Garrett’s pillow—he remembered it was Garrett’s pillow because that was how they’d found themselves that one morning, so many mornings ago—and tried to sleep.

It took a little longer than usual, despite his weary body, because Bodahn had gone and inspired all these _feelings_ of _sympathy_ and _worry_ and _concern_ , and Anders brain always reacted poorly to the introduction of something so unnatural. All he could think of was poor Messere Hawke, curled up like a child on a couch much too small for him, covered in the vilest refuse of Kirkwall proper. Kirkwall’s Champion, covered in Kirkwall’s shit.

Anders would have to tell Varric that one later. It had a poetic weight to it, if not a poetic justice. _Justice_ , he thought, and felt very sad, and slipped into troubled dreams sometime later.

*

Now that they had the drakestone and the _sela petrae_ , they ran a few more errands, thankfully to normal stalls and shops and various locations in the bazaars about town, according to Varric’s instruction and Garrett’s good instincts. Isabela and Merrill came with them this time, flirting all the way, which kept distracting Anders from the task at hand, because it was _so very interesting_ to imagine.

‘No, I _insist_ ,’ Anders said. ‘ _Please_ tell me, Merrill, about the time Isabela taught you to do body shots in the Hanged Man.’

After that, Garrett seemed all too willing to leave Anders and Merrill in Merrill’s quaint little hovel in the alienage while he and Isabela went off to pick some locks, engage in some breaking and entering, the usual rogue stuff that fascinated Anders because he was far too much of a mage to be involved in it.

Merrill poured Anders a cup of tea in a mismatched tea set; the tea itself came out looking like something from the sewers, smelling all too _Dalish_ and _herby_ for Anders’s liking, and he cleverly pretended to drink it while instead pouring it on the floor beneath his chair.

‘Tell me, Anders,’ Merrill said, poring through one of her many large tomes of elvhen lore, probing the depths of Anders’s considerable knowledge, ‘do you ever wonder if all this has happened for a reason?’

‘All this?’ Anders asked. ‘Because I do wonder at reasons for things in general. Like, why are dwarves so short and hairy, and why do Dalish women generally all attempt to kill me, and why can’t we raise dragons once they’re hatched to be pets and carry us around on their backs? The really _serious_ questions, you know, without answer, and without end.’

‘Oh, you can’t keep a dragon as a _pet_ ,’ Merrill said, very seriously. ‘Even if you could train him to be loyal and true, I doubt he’d even know his own strength. He’d be trying to show you affection and then he’d bite your head off by accident! It would all be very sad; Varric would probably write a story about it.’

Anders stared at her, trying to find any sign of a tell, any indication whatsoever that Merrill was being anything less than sincere. Even Velanna hadn’t been this wide-eyed and guileless. It was downright suspicious.

‘You’re staring,’ Merrill noted. ‘Do I have something in between my teeth? It’s the spinach, isn’t it? Or did I say something rude? Hawke _has_ told me to watch my words, since you’re Anders but _not_ Anders at the same time. I don’t see what’s so bad about that, personally—it doesn’t mean _I_ think you’re a stranger. Not really.’

‘Actually, I was rather under the impression that _was_ what it meant,’ Anders said, cleverly.

‘Not at all,’ Merrill assured him. ‘After all, you’re just another version of someone I know quite well. He doesn’t like me very much at all, though. And…you _are_ nicer. I would never have made tea for the other Anders. He never would have accepted my invitation.’

‘Let me guess,’ Anders said, fingering his empty cup and feeling mildly guilty about it, ‘he’d have thrown it in your face screaming something about injustice and then run off to bite the heads off of some templars.’

Merrill giggled, the sound of it like a bell tinkling in the wind. ‘More or less. Did you figure all that out just from talking to the others?’

‘Yes,’ Anders answered. ‘Although what I _can’t_ figure out is why he had such a problem with you. Aside from the obvious.’

‘The obvious?’ Merrill chirped.

‘I’m not a very sunshine and flowers and frolicking through the meadows with gentle woodland creatures kind of person,’ Anders said. ‘I just so happen to hate nature.’

‘Oh, I’m not Sunshine,’ Merrill assured him. ‘That’s… Well, I suppose you haven’t met Bethany. That’s what Varric always called her. She’s in the Circle now, though.’

Anders felt that same bothersome sympathy niggling at him, like an old splinter trying to work its way free. Garrett had already told him about his sister’s fate, but Anders—selfishness coming as naturally to him as breathing—hadn’t thought about it since. The Gallows felt as far away from Hightown as Tevinter; and, in his world, Bethany was nothing more than a memory. He didn’t like to think of her here. He also didn’t like to think of any mage being imprisoned in the Circle, whether it was a tower or an old slave prison. It was all the same thing, in the end.

‘…I’m Daisy,’ Merrill continued, when Anders didn’t say anything. ‘So I suppose you got the part about flowers right.’

The conversation had hitched in an awkward place. Anders knew it, and he suspected even Merrill knew it, for all her fumbling and eager sharing and charming social ineptitude. Any minute now, she was liable to notice his cup was empty and offer to pour him more bitter Dalish tea, made with sludgy alienage water. Or worse, she’d offer to tell him a tale of the Dread Wolf, or Elgar’nan, and Anders wouldn’t be able to say no, because he was frightened of her misdirection hexes.

‘Tell me about Bethany,’ Anders suggested, blurting out the first thing he could think of. Judging by the way Merrill talked—swiftly, and without pause for breath, possibly more words per sentence than _he_ ever used—Anders might not even have time to regret the question.

*

Unfortunately, Anders had underestimated his capacity for regret. In hindsight, the last thing he needed was to know _more_ details about this Garrett’s life, because now that little, niggling splinter in his chest was starting to feel like the entire mast of a ship wedged directly through his ribcage.

It was just that it was all too easy for Anders to picture his own Garrett taking Bethany’s place in so many of Merrill’s stories. What if the templars found him back in Kirkwall? What if he got locked up, without Anders there to blast everyone away with a well-placed streak of lightning? What if Vengeance did something insane, and Garrett didn’t have warning about it, and the templars found out—and so on and so forth. Anything could happen. So much had happened already. Anders was starting to realize why Garrett looked so _concerned_ about everything all the time, and Anders spent much of his afternoon poking at the wrinkle forming in the center of his brow, just above the bridge of his nose, willing it not to become a more permanent fixture.

Garrett returned just as the sun was setting below the walls of the alienage; by that point, Merrill had been talking for hours, and although she hadn’t paused to wet her throat even once, her voice _had_ grown rather higher and squeakier as time progressed. By the time she got to Garrett’s return from the Deep Roads, and what it had meant for Bethany, Anders was certain she’d gone into a range only audible to dogs and elves.

‘Hope we’re not interrupting anything,’ Garrett said. Both he and Isabela had just burst in without knocking. They seemed in good enough spirits, and Anders supposed that meant the job had gone well. That, or Garrett was just _so_ relieved not to have to deal with any more droppings.

‘Not at all!’ Merrill said, getting to her feet. ‘We were just reliving old times. Or I suppose in Anders’s case, living them for the first time. Would you like something to drink? I have…water. Or tea!’

‘No!’ Garrett said, a little too quickly. He caught Anders’s eye across the room, and his mouth quirked sideways. ‘No,’ he said, more gently this time. ‘No thank you, Merrill. That’s quite all right. No.’

‘It’s the water again,’ Merrill said, wilting. ‘Isn’t it? It’s _always_ the water.’

‘Come on, kitten,’ Isabela said. ‘Let’s go to the Hanged Man and have something that’ll _really_ be dangerous, show these boys how to be _real_ men.’

Merrill perked up immediately, leaving two giant tomes open and the kettle on the stove as she leapt to attention. Like a bright little robin chasing after a seagull, Anders thought, then shook the image out of his head, and reminded himself to spend a little less time with Varric, who was becoming a bad influence.

‘I swear,’ Anders said, bringing up the distant rear with Garrett, ‘they’re doing this on purpose, just to torment us.’

Garrett’s mouth did that twisty, thoughtful, crooked thing again, and Anders very pointedly looked in another direction. ‘Doing what?’

‘ _Flirting_ ,’ Anders said. ‘Obscene _and_ beautiful. There _is_ something going on there; there has to be.’

‘Yes,’ Garrett confirmed. ‘And that something is called ‘Isabela.’’

That explained everything.

The alienage was the opposite of peaceful at night, and they narrowly avoided a few skirmishes on their way to the Hanged Man, all the while suffering under the bitter glares of the elves who hated them—and with good reason. Isabela’s hips swayed with hypnotic rhythm in front of him, Merrill holding one of her arms and chatting as they went, and Garrett’s elbow kept bumping into Anders’s side. He found it remarkable how normal all of this was starting to feel, because he’d done it so often, with these people, with _this_ Garrett. Not nearly so often as Vengeance had, the abomination in their midst, his shadow _always_ falling just a few paces ahead of Anders no matter how quickly he walked—but the longer this went on, the more it was becoming _his_ routine. Anders’s routine. _That_ was dangerous.

‘Found all sorts of helpful things today while breaking as many Kirkwall laws as possible, I hope,’ Anders said, abrasively cheerful. ‘The last of the ingredients? Time for me to start concocting? Hope I don’t accidentally blow anything up?’

‘Boom,’ Garrett said thoughtfully, then chuckled. It sounded remarkably like an in-joke, and Anders was reminded—blessedly, perhaps—that he was the sore thumb of this little outfit.

‘Boom indeed,’ Anders agreed. ‘How very ominous of you.’

‘Just a Sandal thing,’ Garrett said, and all was illuminated. ‘There’s just one more ingredient now. Fire glands are difficult to come by, unless you really _want_ to fight a high dragon. In which case, be my guest. I’m sure Varric will be willing to compose an absolutely _beautiful_ eulogy for you.’

‘I fought a bone dragon once,’ Anders mused. ‘But, not being a lunatic, I don’t really want to do something like _that_ again.’

Garrett bowed in place, fluid and easy. ‘Which is why Varric’s working on it.’

‘And _that_ means it’s time for us to get filthy drunk again?’ Anders asked.

Really, it was the only way they had of dealing with all of this. People weren’t meant to struggle with so very much, emotionally and mentally—and occasionally physically, as well—on a daily basis. Anders was a Grey Warden, and that gave him stamina for _certain_ things, which he woefully had not yet had much chance to test out, but this went beyond even Grey Warden limitations. Beyond even _Champion_ limitations, he suspected.

They were doing all they could. When in doubt, flush it out. No better way than to numb their minds and lift their spirits than in Kirkwall’s seediest taproom.

It might not have been the noblest of choices, nor did it set the very best example, but Anders’s head was reeling with thoughts of Bethany and the contradictions of Garretts and he was starting to think in metaphor like Varric. He needed a drink. He _deserved_ a drink.

And so did Garrett, for that matter.

‘I like the way you think,’ the champion in question said, holding the door of the Hanged Man open for him. It was a compliment of so high a caliber that it left Anders feeling fluttery all evening.

*

Thirteen unlucky rounds of strip-Diamondback and no clothes later, Anders held his feathery pauldrons over his lap and tried not to think about what he was sitting on so very bare-assed. He also tried not to stare at Isabela’s breasts—that was harder to accomplish—or think about Garrett’s bare chest, the unfamiliar scars, those three dark beauty marks or large freckles or whatever they were mapping out in a glorious constellation across Garrett’s left shoulder-blade.

‘You in for another round, Blondie?’ Varric asked.

Anders swayed in place. ‘I should really be—’ He hiccupped, ‘—preparing myself mentally—’ And again, ‘—for the work I have to do. Extremely serious Tevinter concoctioning. And, what is more, I have no clothes left.’

‘Oh, come _on_ ,’ Isabela said. ‘I’ve always wondered. Wanted to see for myself what you’ve got down there, what it is that has Hawke so _captivated_.’

Fenris, infuriatingly fully armored, made a noise like Ser Pounce-a-lot did when he was coughing up a hairball. Anders missed Ser Pounce-a-lot.

‘I feel objectified in this moment,’ Anders sniffed, straightening his back, trying to look dignified. It failed, because all he had between himself and complete nudity were his socks and a lap full of feathers.

Isabela leaned back, stretching and yawning and sun-bronzed and positively _gorgeous_ , and laughed delightedly. ‘Why, silly,’ she said, ‘that’s because I _am_ objectifying you.’

‘In that case,’ Anders told her, ‘please continue.’

‘I think it really _is_ happening for a reason,’ Merrill said suddenly, deep and distant and wise. Her eyes, murky Dalish pools of wonder and ancient knowledge, were focused on something faraway. Anders stared at her through his own murky human eyes, murky because they were red-rimmed and bleary, wondering if this was actually happening, or if Corff’s whiskey had certain hallucinogenic mushrooms or frog bits in it tonight. ‘To see a side of you we’ve never seen before—because it is you, only not the you we’ve ever gotten to know—it’s like a story of old, one of Fen’Harel’s tricks. A lesson to be learned in this, that’s for certain.’

A calm fell over Anders’s very soul. He could sense the words had real meaning, almost a magical property to them, but he wasn’t sure how to put it all together. If only he had a list of instructions to go along with the ingredients.

Then, Merrill stuck her tongue out and bit it hard. ‘Oh! I think I have it!’ she said, dropping her cards onto the table. ‘Diamondback! I have a full flush of dwarven diamonds!’

‘Not quite, kitten,’ Isabela said, after a quick perusal. ‘But you’re _much_ closer than usual.’

‘Oh…’ Merrill said. ‘ _Shit._ ’

Isabela let out a wicked giggle. Varric looked caught somewhere between scandalized and proud. Anders took the opportunity to steal a liberal look down the back of Garrett’s pants while everyone was distracted. The man had an exceedingly well-shaped backside peeking out over the top of his trousers, and _Anders_ , for one, wasn’t the sort to let a natural resource like that go to waste.

‘Right,’ Garrett said. Anders snapped out of his reverie somewhat guiltily. ‘That’s enough.’

‘It is?’ Anders asked, a bit too hopefully. The feathers were tickling him in all sorts of private places that he rather stubbornly wished to _keep_ private, and his left sock was stuck to something tacky on the floor. As much as he enjoyed a rousing night of getting roaring drunk and losing at cards, he was more than ready to fold before things got even more drafty.

‘It is,’ Garrett confirmed. He stood, hitching his trousers up to Anders’s great chagrin, and grabbed his shirt off the table. ‘I’m out. Deciding to escape with the smidgen of dignity I have left—a rare occurrence, I know, but I’m trying to impress someone. You all have a lovely night. Don’t let Varric clean you out.’

‘Wait— Garrett,’ Anders said, scrambling to stand. He then realized he was still sitting bare-assed in his chair with only his jacket for cover, and scowled. When Garrett turned his way, Anders made sure to look excessively woebegone. ‘I’m not _dressed yet._ ’

‘Some of us were enjoying that,’ Isabela said, with a wink. ‘Now would you do a little turn? I want to see what you’ve got in the stern.’

With a sigh, Garrett crossed the room to stand in front of Anders, shielding him from the prying eyes of others as he fetched his smallclothes from beneath the table. He was probably going to have to burn those, now that they’d touched the floor. Maybe Garrett had some he could borrow. Anders did his best to dress quickly, slipping his bare arms through his sleeves, doing all he could to avoid staring at the comforting wall of Garrett’s back, between him and the rest of the room. Garrett’s shoulders were loose and his hands were on his hips. He seemed relaxed, despite his sudden decision to get up and go.

Anders still didn’t entirely understand the motivation behind that choice, but he wasn’t foolish enough to start questioning it. Garrett wanted to leave, and it had been a long day. A long day that ended in some amount of public nakedness. Anders was more than happy to head back to the house; he was even beginning to look forward to his nights in Garrett’s bed as if it was his own. And, what with the way things were going, he probably wouldn’t have many more chances to spend the night in it.

Anders fished his left boot out from under Garrett’s abandoned chair, hopping as he pulled it on. He clapped Garrett companionably on the shoulder, using him for support as the room suddenly spun in a dizzying circle.

‘Farewell, adoring public,’ Anders said, rather enjoying his vantage point from over Garrett’s shoulder, at Garrett’s side. As though it meant something; as though _he_ was supposed to be there. ‘You shall all just have to _imagine_ the sight of me naked, as I know some of you must. Fenris, certainly. And Varric, you saucy nug.’

‘Better take him home, Hawke,’ Varric said. ‘Before he proposes marriage again and breaks my poor heart.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Anders said. Garrett took him by the elbow to lead him away. ‘I _didn’t_ I…did?’

‘Only once,’ Garrett assured him, his voice pitched low like a secret between them. ‘Afterward, you threw up on his boot. But don’t worry; _you_ were the one who called it all off.’

*

Anders and Garrett stumbled their way home in the dark, following the stairs and city lanterns guiding them back to Hightown. The moon was high in the sky, round and golden as a cooked apple. It was an eerie sight, almost like it was watching him, and Anders didn’t miss it when it passed behind the clouds. Garrett drew close to him in the dark; Anders didn’t shy away, but instead slipped his arm through the crook of Garrett’s elbow. The night had a chill to it, and he wasn’t about to turn away the offer of someone to lean against. This seemed to be what Garrett had been angling for, since he relaxed after that, and ceased butting into Anders like an affectionate cat on the street.

They passed the dwarves on the stairs, Sandal staring blankly, Anders waving cheerfully. He didn’t know _what_ it must have looked like to them. By his calculations—admittedly fuzzy at the moment—he and Garrett had come home drunk every night since his arrival. _And_ they weren’t sleeping in the same room. It must have seemed like someone’s parents during those loveless years when they both had other lovers on the side.

But Anders didn’t think it wise to delve too deeply into the inner workings of a dwarven mind. All too often they were thinking about stone, ale, or dangly bits. At least, that had always been the case with Oghren: any time he’d volunteered his thoughts, Anders ended up wishing he hadn’t. Similarly, Anders didn’t want to know what was going on in the tortured inner monologues of Bodahn and Sandal now, or really at any given moment. He had better things to put his mind to: Garrett’s shoulder rubbing against his own, and also that they’d both nearly been _naked_ together in the same room, infiltrating presences notwithstanding.

In fact, it was rather difficult to think of anything else as they crossed the threshold of Garrett’s bedroom together. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, and all Anders could think of suddenly was Garrett’s hands around his wrists; the weight of his body against Anders’s chest and the powerful muscles shifting at his back.

Anders’s throat was dry. He swallowed to wet it.

‘Garrett,’ Anders said.

‘Goodnight, Anders,’ Garrett murmured. His eyes were red-rimmed, darting between the bed, the fire and the door.

‘I had a lovely evening,’ Anders tried again. He could be _exceedingly_ stubborn when he wanted to. Nothing could dissuade him. Not alcohol, and certainly not a little thing like Garrett’s obvious discomfort. ‘You really know how to treat a— And a lovely day, too. Lovely Dalish tea with lots of lovely herbs in it.’

‘…You had a nice time with Merrill?’ Garrett asked. A faint smile spread across his face.

Anders took advantage of his distraction to tug him in the direction of the bed, sitting him down, sitting down beside him. ‘I _did._ She’s a lovely little thing. Skittish, though. Talks like a chantry mother trying to convert an entire brothel in under an hour. Even I could hardly get a word in edgewise.’

Garrett began to laugh. It bubbled up bright and honest from his chest, his body heaving against Anders’s as he fought to control himself. It was infectious. Anders held him up, rifling his fingers through Garrett’s hair where it was warm and damp at the back of his neck.

‘Did I say something _very_ funny?’ he asked softly. ‘And here I wasn’t even trying that hard.’

‘No; it isn’t that,’ Garrett said, voice colored with mirth. ‘It’s just—Merrill’s a blood mage, you know. Of all the Dalish women to actually _like_ …’

‘A _what?_ ’ Anders asked. He pulled away, back hitting the bedpost. ‘Garrett, tell me you’re joking. Tell me you did _not_ leave me all alone in the middle of the Kirkwall alienage to drink tea with a blood mage. I need to hear the truth now.’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Garrett said, ‘because it would be a lie. And,’ he added, apparently to make things more serious, ‘I don’t lie to you.’

‘A _blood mage_ ,’ Anders repeated. He was too drunk for this. ‘How could you do that to me, Garrett? Are you trying to kill me? Do you hate me that much?’

Garrett shook his head. He was back-lit by the flickering light from the fireplace, all the warmth and the smoky wood burning making the air thick. He inched forward, resting his brow against Anders’s forehead; Anders’s eyes crossed while trying to keep sight of him: a languid blink, the twitch of his lips, his grin, his low laugh.

‘Honestly,’ Anders continued, feeling himself begin to panic; he always did this, in the moment just before he got something he’d _thought_ he wanted, only it was the chase he really craved, the simple, tantalizing, straightforward pursuit rather than the actual prize, ‘why does no one _tell_ me these things? Next you’ll let it slip that Isabela is a chantry sister and this Sebastian fellow I keep hearing about is actually a Tevinter Magister! I’m always the last person to know these things. What _else_ have you been hiding from me?’

‘Nothing,’ Garrett insisted. ‘I haven’t hidden enough, I’d say.’

‘And yet all these important pieces of information were just _conveniently_ forgotten when you introduced us,’ Anders said. Garrett nodded, hair brushing against Anders’s skin, his hand on Anders’s shoulder, buried in a clump of feathers. A chill ran through him; it had nothing to do with the topic of blood magic. Anders, dutifully, horribly, kept talking. ‘I’m just glad she didn’t try to use me in a Dalish sacrifice—Dalish _and_ a blood mage, absolutely _the_ worst combination—no _wonder_ that tea looked so suspicious! It was _blood magic tea._ ’

‘There’s no such thing, Anders,’ Garrett said.

‘Blood magic is wrong,’ Anders tried to remind him, ‘and, what’s _more_ , it’s just _awkward_. How macabre! Who even thought of it first, I wonder? It’s all slitting wrists and dark rituals under the moonlight—even more perverse than the Joining, _and_ they do it _all the time_ , not just once per interested party. A sure sign someone’s disturbed, that, let me tell you.’

Garrett blinked again. From so close, it was incredibly hard to make out the rusty color of his eyes, something golden hidden beneath flecks of deeper brown. ‘You’re joking—about blood magic?’

‘Of course,’ Anders said. ‘It’s absolutely the most hilariously stupid thing. If I didn’t joke about it, I’d have to take it _seriously._ And that would be awful.’

‘Were you always like this?’ Garrett asked.

Anders blinked. ‘That I refuse to change or mature is part of my appeal,’ he said weakly. ‘That’s me. Anders. I’m… _fun_.’

‘You _are_ fun,’ Garrett agreed. His hands stilled against the side of Anders’s throat. The touch made Anders jittery; it made him shiver all over. He knew he was acting more than a little ridiculous, absolutely too immature for his age, and it didn’t much matter—his nerves frayed, his memory kicking into overdrive, Garrett’s rough fingertips reminding Anders of the last time they’d been this close. He covered Garrett’s hand with his own, rubbing his thumb over Garrett’s knuckles, the little scar between fore- and index-finger he remembered from before. When Garrett slid his palm up over Anders’s throat to his jaw, Anders followed him; he leaned into the touch, let his eyes fall shut, let instinct and want take over. Garrett’s thumb rested against the corner of Anders’s mouth and he kissed at it, awkwardly, pointedly, feeling the cracked tip with his own chapped lips.

 _Garrett thought he was fun._

Eagerness and hope and promise mingled with the warnings Anders knew would make any progress stick in his throat; what he wanted was never what he needed, and what he needed was never what he got. This was certainly a combination of all those troublesome factors with something new and unpredictable thrown into the mix. Terrible; just terrible. Anders was suddenly close enough to kiss someone else’s lover, only that someone else just happened to be _him_ , in some other world, some other future, some other home.

In a way, it was almost liberating. Anything could happen here and have no bearing on _Anders’s_ real life, but for once, Anders wasn’t thinking only about himself. This Garrett was very real; the repercussions would be real for him. Anders really needed to put a stop to this before they did something so many people would regret.

It was like being part of an unwilling threesome, Anders thought: him, Garrett, and the other guy—Vengeance—who was actually sort of _two_ other guys, now that Anders pushed the comparison even further. An unwilling foursome? Now _that_ was going too far. Even for Anders, who’d taken an active part in some pretty deviant things back in the Fereldan Circle.

Garrett pulled in a ragged breath, uneven and hoarse, like he was choking or drowning or something worse. Anders’s eyes opened, and their faces were close, Garrett cupping his chin in one hand, Anders holding onto his wrist. There was a brief moment when their eyes met—when each of them knew the other had no idea what was about to come next—and Anders wanted to pull back, but Garrett’s charisma pulled him forward instead. This was the sort of man who could look at you once and you’d follow him off the top of a mountain; if he said jump, you’d spread your wings and hope to the Maker you could fly. No wonder he’d won the hearts of Kirkwall in so short a period of time. Only a bare few days, and Anders was eating out of the palm of his hand.

It wasn’t just because of the very sizable crush he had on _his_ Garrett—there was something about this one, the way he cared for another person, the way that other person _could_ have been Anders, if only their paths had crossed earlier…

Anders shook his head; he’d never thought this much about a single kiss before. In fact, that was the best part about kissing someone: you didn’t really have to think at all.

 _Stupid Anders,_ Anders thought, and Garrett must have seen it, _must have_ recognized something in his face or in his posture, because they were kissing at last, all the best kinds of desperate, hot, drunk, and _wonderful_.

Anders was pressed back against the bedpost, stark wooden corners digging into his back. Garrett’s _tongue_ was in his mouth, his beard rubbing up against Anders’s chin as he tilted his head back, pressing forward into the kiss. Anders’s hand slid from Garrett’s shoulder to his chest, fingers tightening in the fabric of his armored jerkin. It occurred to him that it had been an _extremely_ long time since he’d kissed anyone—while not under the impression it was all a dream—and that didn’t precisely seem fair.

Anders was a good person; he was a Grey Warden, and a healer, protecting Thedas from darkspawn and infections. Sometimes he did selfish things and he often went out of his way to be shallow and feckless, but didn’t he deserve to be kissed like anyone else?

Garrett apparently thought so. He gathered Anders up in his arms, and pushed him down onto the bed. A giddy little gasp escaped Anders’s mouth as Garrett’s weight crushed the air out of him for a second time. He wriggled beneath him, spreading his thighs so that one of Garrett’s legs could slip between them. The mattress was soft at his back; the muscles in Garrett’s chest were hard against his fingers. Anders’s heart pounded, trying to keep up with the shallow pace of his breathing. This was ill-advised for so many reasons and yet— _somehow_ —Anders couldn’t quite talk himself out of it.

It wasn’t exactly cheating if Garrett’s lover _was_ Anders, was it? Even if the idea of _his_ Garrett doing the same thing made something cold and miserable lance through his chest, Anders pushed those feelings aside. Petty, small, inconsequential. He didn’t need them. He’d spent what felt like a lifetime being brave and honorable and sleeping in a bed that smelled like a man he wanted to be sleeping _with,_ and now it was time to make good on his suffering.

Anders wasn’t an incredibly virtuous person. The only spirit _of_ virtue he’d ever known had denounced him for being selfish and thoughtless. All the moral fiber he did have went into resisting demonic possession on basically a daily basis, all part and parcel of being a mage.

But he was no match for Garrett. He couldn’t hope to resist those hands.

Garrett’s teeth dragged lightly at Anders’s tongue when he swiped it against them, and Anders responded all too gladly to the pressure, hips shifting up lightly against Garrett’s above him. Had they remembered to close the door? Anders couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Everything fell away when he felt the hot, hidden curve of Garrett’s erection digging into his hip. He moaned into Garrett’s mouth, hands rising to cup his face.

A little-known fact about Anders was how much he adored beards. They were handsome, and they framed the mouth so _well_. They left rough, raw patches on his skin after extended periods of kissing; people saw them, might have had too much self-restraint to comment on them, but they always _knew_. There was no downside, as far as Anders was concerned. And Garrett’s beard had always proven an exceptional specimen.

Anders shivered when Garrett broke away from his mouth at last. He kissed a trail to his jaw-line, then down his neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive pulse point, drawn on by something he seemed unable to resist. Anders’s whole body arched like a well-strung bow, head pressing back into the mattress, fingers clutching at Garrett’s face, his hair, the back of his neck.

The embrace was tinged with desperation, but there was heat there, too. Garrett’s desire was undeniable. Anders thought about what it must have been like for him, sleeping in the study on a cold couch when someone who looked so much like his lover was lying in their bedroom, in _their bed_. Had he thought about the night they’d spent in here together, before everything had gone cross-eyed? Breathless, expression glassy, Anders realized he must have been thinking about it. Which meant the depths of Garrett’s self-control reached further than Anders had ever dreamed.

He deserved this. They _both_ did.

But Garrett had also dug through all kinds of shit for a man he apparently loved, a man who would rather work on his manifesto than spend every one of his waking hours in Garrett’s bed, which was where _Anders_ would be if he had a choice in the matter.

And _that_ was justice for you. Remarkable how closely it resembled _in_ justice.

Anders struggled to get one of his hands free, working it between them to begin undoing the buckles on his coat. Garrett could—no, he _should_ stay in the bed tonight. Anders hadn’t quite worked his way around to saying it yet, but perhaps Garrett would be able to understand the intent behind his actions. It was selfish; Anders had done worse things in his time. He didn’t want to be alone, but he was coming to realize that what he wanted more was for _Garrett_ not to be alone.

The dog didn’t count. Otherwise the circumstances were too tragic for Anders to contemplate.

Garrett made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He braced his arms on either side of Anders’s head, hips dragging against Anders’s in small, helpless bursts. Anders could feel his breath against his neck, warm and damp, and his erection still, needy and promising.

‘This… _really_ isn’t a good idea,’ Garrett gasped.

Anders wrapped a leg around one of his in retaliation, the heel of his boot settling neatly into the back of Garrett’s knee. He panted, staring up at the canopy. He _wanted_ to offer a rebuttal, but he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing what his voice might sound like at this stage. Also, he didn’t know what to say. _Please_ came to mind, but he wasn’t a dog; he hated begging.

‘Anders?’ Garrett asked. His beard brushed against Anders’s throat as he looked up.

‘I’m here,’ Anders said. He remembered what Garrett had asked about after their first night—whether he’d been having more blackouts. Privately, he couldn’t imagine how anyone would give up a second of being in the moment with Garrett. Not _this_ kind of moment, nor any other.

Then, Anders realized what that sounded like, what it meant that he was actually harboring such insane thoughts. Good thing he was the only one who could hear himself thinking, much as he wished he could _unhear_ so much of that endless blither.

‘No,’ Garrett said; Anders could feel it the moment he decided they weren’t doing this, trying to tighten his hold while Garrett, quick as a shadow and looking just as dark, slipped away. ‘No, you’re not here.’

Anders was, he thought; _he_ was here. But of course the person Garrett was looking for wasn’t.

It all made sense, down to why Garrett had wanted to leave when conversation at the Hanged Man turned too serious. Anders was fun, but fun wasn’t what you took home to mother. Or to your house dwarves. Or to your fearsome mabari warhound.

Anders’s limbs went loose and Garrett reeled away; he looked only a little drunk but totally off-balance, steadying himself against the mantle for a moment before he shot toward the door. Anders was a veteran of humiliation—it was one of the few things in which he had a surplus of experience—but this, as Aveline would say, really took the cake, a comparison that would finally manage to ruin cake for him once and for all. It wasn’t just the humiliation that made it so awful, but the demands of his body, what it wanted even despite the obvious rejection. The way he could still smell and feel Garrett arching down over him, the friction as their dicks rubbed together and sent shocks of heat through to the depths of Anders’s gut. It was a pure, raw reaction, what happened when two eager bodies got together and caused a little bit of every-day chain lightning.

But the door to the bedroom slammed shut a moment later, making Anders twitch where he lay: alone on the bed, with no one to look after him. He was here, and the person Garrett wanted was somewhere else, and it wasn’t fair, because Anders was absolutely _certain_ he was a _better version_ of that person. Certainly a younger, more virile version of that person. And also, not an abomination, which really _should_ have made him irresistible.

‘I hate Anders,’ Anders said, not for the first time, not entirely sure which Anders he was talking about. But he had an erection to take care of, no desire to go creeping about in the dark mansion hallways to find Bodahn and ask for a nice cold bath to be run for him.

It was inappropriate—yet still no more inappropriate than all the other things he’d done already, just that night—when Anders guiltily shoved his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, bit his lower lip, and closed his eyes.

He tried to recapture some of what he’d been feeling moments ago, the guilt and the shame only fueling the intensity of his want—and Garrett’s strong, lithe body doing nothing to discourage the sheer physical attraction. But all the while Garrett’s sad, pointed expressions kept filtering through, the wry twist of his mouth and the way his shoulders sometimes hunched when no one else was looking. Anders thought about the freckles on his shoulder and saw only the scar between them; he tried to picture Garrett lying in bed with him, but the only image he could conjure was the one of Garrett sleeping, filthy, on the study couch, mud and Maker-only-knew what else caked onto his ruined boots, face hidden in the crook of his elbow, the torn sleeve stiff with dried raider blood.

And still Anders came, hot and quick, into his own palm, the rough strokes dirty and fast, the satisfaction fading all too quickly, barely giving him an ounce of the necessary relief.

At least, Anders told himself, in an attempt to lighten the mood, Sandal hadn’t appeared from the darkness to watch him; the last thing Anders wanted was to traumatize the lad, and, in return, traumatize himself.

 _Remember, Anders, you’re the fun one,_ he told himself, and fun was likable, just not worth any deeper risk.

Then again, he’d never taken those risks on himself. No matter what he told himself—and anyone else who’d listen—escaping the Circle seven times with no real plans for the future didn’t really count.

*

By the time Anders rose the next morning, Garrett was already gone. Anders had been expecting it, to be perfectly honest, but it made him feel terrible nonetheless.

‘Running errands and taking care of the usual business,’ Bodahn said, and, ‘Messere is always _so_ busy; I worry about his health!’

Anders listened to him, but only with one ear, and since he wasn’t in the mood for breakfast, he went to hide upstairs—in the study, which smelled more of Garrett now than the bedroom did.

There was nothing for him to do—he didn’t feel comfortable going out for a walk without Garrett; cowardice, of course, played a major role in that, but also real forethought and self-restraint. What if he were to run into someone he was supposed to know? What if that someone was out for his blood? Anders’s curiosity only carried him so far; he didn’t want to be taken to task for _Vengeance’s_ inability to get along with people. He liked his limbs very much where they were, and he’d already seen first-hand how ruthless Kirkwall could be, even if you were traveling with someone who was oh-so-talented at crushing skulls.

Thus, there was only one way to pass the time, and that was by doing something _useful._ Not exactly Anders’s first choice, but then again, what _real_ choice did he have?

He was being so good. ‘I hope you’re watching this,’ he said, with a glance up at the ceiling and therefore in the vague direction of the Maker. Then, he slipped out of the estate, keeping his head down, doing his best to blend in on his way from Hightown to Darktown, and the clinic that had started it all. As long as he made no eye-contact and ignored anyone trying to sell him something, he’d make it to his destination without incident.

It was long past time to do some research—find out if there were any ancient tomes of Tevinter lore hidden in old crates or torn pillowcases, something that would shed real light on the need for _sela petrae_ and all the other things Anders had been thinking about _ad nauseum_ for the past few days.

Upon arrival, the clinic was eerily empty once again; its patients must have assumed by now that the good doctor was never returning, and Anders did his best to keep to the shadows before slipping inside, so that no one would see him and ask him for theories on a personal rash. He locked the doors behind him, rolled up his sleeves, and wrapped his handkerchief—his _new_ handkerchief, a nice silk one Garrett had bought for him to replace the one he’d ruined—around his mouth.

It didn’t block out the smell entirely, but it was better than nothing.

Then, much as Anders was keen to avoid the inevitable, it was time to get to work.

The clinic wasn’t _just_ as bad as Anders remembered. It was, in fact, approximately one hundred times worse. Crammed into the small location were dozens of crates, a barrel that doubled as a table with a few low chairs scattered haphazardly around it, and countless cots strewn wherever there was a spare bit of space. It was cramped and dirty, ragged cloth drawn up on poles to cordon off separate areas, and except for the main thoroughfare, there was truly nowhere to stand. The papers Anders had seen were still near the back of the room, spread across the dirty ground like a bed for some kind of squalid animal. Somehow, the entire place seemed just as much a testament to Other Anders’s deteriorating mental state as his notes were.

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose to gain focus, then forced himself to start looking. Despite the large volume of junk cluttering the clinic, the task facing him wasn’t actually as bad as it looked for one simple reason: Other Anders wouldn’t hide any forbidden tomes anywhere his patients could find them. That automatically ruled out the cots, and most of the crates, which seemed to contain nothing more interesting than clean bandages and a few spare poultices. There was another, smaller chest—a donation box, perhaps—but it was currently empty.

 _Shocking_.

Already feeling better, Anders crossed to the back of the clinic, kneeling to rifle through Anders’s papers. There was nothing that caught his eye, but while he was back there, he noticed a corner of the room partitioned off from the rest of the clinic. Surely it wasn’t what it looked like—a private space for a weary healer to collapse onto at the end of the day.

‘ _No,_ ’ Anders said aloud, unable to contain his horror. It couldn’t be. He’d had trouble accepting aspects of his life in this alternate Kirkwall before, but this was crossing the line. Other Anders _slept_ here. There were nights when he curled up on a cot in Darktown— _by choice_ —rather than returning to the comforts of the master bedroom at the Hawke Estate.

It was all too much. Anders simply couldn’t accept this level of utter nonsense coming from someone wearing his face. He sniffed in disapproval, the silk tied tight across the bridge of his nose. His handkerchief smelled like Garrett—an unforeseen side effect of the gift being carried around in Garrett’s pocket all day long—and Anders’s stomach gave a funny jolt at the memory of last night, what had come after it.

‘Focus,’ he told himself, sternly. The words came out slightly muffled from under the cloth.

Anders approached the makeshift bedroom with some trepidation. He’d had little compunction about taking his place in Garrett’s bed, but somehow disturbing _this_ seemed like more of an intrusion. It was as though he’d accidentally trespassed into the inner sanctum of Vengeance. Any minute now, Justice would show up to give him a righteous smiting.

Now that was a joke that had lost some of its luster since his arrival.

Just as Anders had expected, there wasn’t much in the sanctum itself. There was no tell-tale chest of belongings to root through—as there so helpfully had been in Garrett’s room—and it was very difficult to hide anything under a cot. Anders began with the crates stacked in the corner first, prying them open and rooting through their meager contents. Mostly they contained medical supplies too sensitive to be kept with the others out front; one had lyrium potions, and another seemed to be filled entirely with pitch-black feathers. Anders stuck his hand in, just to make sure they weren’t concealing anything, but his fingers brushed against only fluffy softness.

How utterly bizarre. Maybe Other Anders was a bird murderer in his spare time—what few hours he had in between writing his manifesto and making his friends feel alienated devoted to the slaughter of street pigeons. After all, he’d need a constant supply of fresh, glossy feathers to keep his coat looking just right.

But all this snooping wasn’t getting him anywhere. Anders sat down tentatively on the hard cot, pondering where to search next. He shifted thoughtfully, thinking that the bed was _particularly_ hard just beneath his left buttock. In fact, there was a corner of something sharp digging into him from behind. Anders blinked, then stood quickly, pulling aside the moth-eaten blanket. Resting at the center of the bed, like a baby in a bassinet, was a thick book with an embossed leather cover.

Just above that was an embroidered pillow that Anders knew all too well. He brushed his fingers tentatively against its frayed surface, feeling like he’d just seen a ghoul. Other Anders had a mother who’d embroidered pillows too. And he’d held onto it all this time, even after becoming an abomination.

Maybe there was hope for the poor fellow after all, hope that didn’t rest _solely_ on Garrett’s shoulders.

Leaving the pillow aside, Anders hoisted the book up into his lap, peeling the cover back. It was heavier than it looked. He couldn’t imagine how Other Anders had managed to smuggle it in past the templars, to say nothing of all his patients. His choice of hiding place was somewhat prosaic, but perhaps he was relying on the fact that no one would want to go rooting through a healer’s bed when there were so many interesting crates and barrels about.

Anders ran a nervous hand down the first page, not even sure what he hoped to find. The tome appeared to be written in Arcanum, which sealed its origin in the Imperium. A lifelong interest in some of the ideals of Tevinter—what young, foolhardy mage _wasn’t_ obsessed with the one place in Thedas where mages were free?—had left Anders with at least some fluency in the language, and he quickly set to reading.

If he could just divine the nature of the text—if it was about something like, _Your Spirit and You: How to Stop Living as an Abomination_ —then Anders would know if he’d found the right thing, not just idle bedtime reading, Vengeance’s version of a good romance novel. Yet he wasn’t all that keen to start another search around the clinic. There weren’t any hidey-holes beneath the loose floorboards, because there wasn’t any floor at all, just rough-hewn rock and, somewhere deeper, the sewers.

The book was all he had, even if his Arcanum was a bit rusty.

*

Some few hours and many pages later, Anders’s head spinning with attempt after attempt to parse the text, it had become all too clear that the book was neither _Your Spirit and You: How to Stop Living as an Abomination_ nor _Perhaps You Should Rethink Your Obsession and Consider Turning it Back Into More of a Hobby_. Nor was it _The Imperium Does Have Some Things Right But Hey Remember All That Blood Magic?_ nor even some light reading, _Awesome Archons: Tales of Tevinter._

Any of those titles would have been more acceptable—and probably more illuminating—than what the tome really was: a history of Tevinter written by a Tevinter Magister, which, as one could easily imagine, made it all rather biased. The glory days, back before Andraste and the fall; stories of the great Imperial Highway, the heroes of Minrathous, the strength of an empire glorified without any single mention of the reasons for its fall.

It all sounded very good on paper, and Anders would have enjoyed it more if it had been a collection of stories rather than histories. It was the troublesome fact that he already knew the ending to the tale, knew that the Imperium was just an isolated shadow these days, and also felt as though it was perhaps _somewhat_ responsible for the current state of mages everywhere, that made him feel uncomfortable with the whole mode of representation.

Also, it had nothing to do with anything _helpful_ —history so rarely did, since everyone ignored it and repeated its greatest mistakes anyway—and now Anders smelled like Darktown, had a tremendous headache, _and_ he was no closer to any solid information that might help him set things right for his pains.

Anders was about to give up, flipping to the back of the book in frustration, when he discovered a glossary of famous ingredients, the time and location of their discoveries, and—at last!—their applicable uses. There was drakestone, and _sela petrae_ , and all the others, and Anders felt his heart swell with joy, all but ready to the thank the Maker and apologize for ever doubting him—except, as he read, he found there was absolutely no cross-referencing to indicate they could be used in any anti-possession rituals.

The glossary pages were particularly well-worn, as though someone had read them over and over; turning to them reflexively in a dark night in even darker Darktown, lying in a cesspool of a clinic, unable to quiet the raging mind. Anders could picture it all too well. It gave him the shivers, like _he_ was suffering from a fever, brought to hi as a gift by one of his patients.

So the recipe had nothing to do with anything at all. They’d devoted time, energy, countless pairs of boots, and a lifetime of horrid memories to the search, and now that Anders saw where Vengeance had learned about the materials, he could also see they were completely unrelated to any sort of ritual that was appropriate in _this_ situation.

There were numerous rituals the ingredients could be used for, but Anders’s way of thinking was so diametrically opposite to Vengeance’s thought process that it was impossible to theorize _which_ ritual had caught the lunatic’s eye. If he _did_ venture a guess, he’d just end up being wrong again anyway. He’d been so very wrong already: wrong about the list’s importance, wrong about the sundering, wrong about giving Garrett false hope—how embarrassing!—and now he was back at the start, with no clues, no leads, and no real optimism left.

What a fine position to be in, Anders thought. Oh, how he hated Anders. He’d never hated Anders more in his life, not even the time he’d been caught halfway across Lake Calenhad, returned to the tower, with soggy smallclothes _and_ the beginnings of a cold. He couldn’t even look through the list of Famous Tevinter Artifacts that followed Famous Tevinter Materials; it was all Eye of the Magister this and Tevinter Chantry Amulet that, lists of magical properties and legends that were no less unbelievable than the myth Anders was currently living.

He had half a mind to have a good sulk and throw the book across the room, but first of all, it wasn’t the book’s fault, and second of all, it was really very heavy. There was no point to it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better. He might strain something.

Anders took a calming, deep breath. Perhaps the Maker couldn’t hear him from all the way down in Darktown. If Anders _had_ been someone of the Maker’s infinite power, he wouldn’t spend his time spying on Ferelden refugees and free clinic operators. _He’d_ peek into the Pearl back in Denerim whenever he could; the Maker, presumably being a bit less impure of soul, would likely check up on his chantries, to see that everyone was kneeling properly and singing the right chants.

So _that_ was how Vengeance had scraped by without a smiting of his own for so long. The Maker couldn’t be everywhere at once. And it seemed to Anders he was often much more of a presence in certain places than in others.

All this blasphemy—no wonder he’d been abandoned in his hour of need.

Knowing that it was time to return to Garrett with all this information—that their progress up to this point had all been for naught, and sorry about the _sela petrae_ thing, and if they ever got Other Anders back here again at least they could save it for him as a nice present, considering it was first on his wish list and everything—was enough to make Anders want to stay _here_ , in the clinic. Lesser of two evils and all that.

Then Anders saw the pillow, faded fabric, even a familiar stain on the top right corner—he remembered how he’d snuck food back from supper one night, so long ago, spilling the sauce as he ate in the dark. He’d been so proud of himself, hadn’t even been caught by any of the senior enchanters. It had, in a way, started his lifetime of petty and meaningless rebellions, which made him feel good, but had absolutely no impact on anyone.

Anders sighed heavily. He felt overwhelmingly depressed. He really hoped this wasn’t the sort of spell that had a time limit before it could no longer be broken, because if it did, they’d wasted so much already. First midnight, second midnight, even third midnight had already passed, and that was usually how these things worked, wasn’t it?

Anders was no expert. And that was exactly the problem.

He tucked the book of Tevinter lore back into its rightful hiding place, smoothing the fabric of the pillow out over it, guiltily covering up the cot with its meager, threadbare blanket. As though he really needed _more_ reasons to dread facing Garrett—then again, what was one more on top of everything?

However, avoidance was something Anders knew how to push to its ultimate limits. When all else failed, there was always the Hanged Man.

‘Now there’s the spirit,’ Anders told himself, slipping free of the clinic and wincing at his choice of words, which were, as always, grossly inappropriate.

*

‘I’ve seen that look before, Blondie,’ Varric said knowingly.

‘You have?’ Anders asked. There were no reflective surfaces in the Hanged Man to see what, exactly, he looked like. When he attempted to look different, Varric just chuckled.

‘Now it’s even worse,’ he said. ‘Step into my office.’

Varric’s office was just his private room, which Anders had suspected from the start. He pulled up his favorite chair, seating himself at the head of the long table and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The resulting tableaux left Anders with the sense that he was about to be turned down for a loan, or told something equally unpleasant.

Anders sat in one of the chairs on the left-hand side, and did his best to relax. It was difficult, but—as he’d been telling himself the entire way here—at least he wasn’t facing Garrett yet. He hoped he wasn’t mistaken in assuming that Varric might be his only other ally in Kirkwall. That, and he seemed rather intelligent for a dwarf. It wasn’t totally unreasonable to think that the two of them might be able to come up with a solution. If they worked well together, Garrett might never even have to known there _was_ a snag in their plan.

And maybe nugs would learn to fly. The point was, there was _always_ hope, so long as there was someone foolish enough to cultivate it. And Anders was just that foolish someone.

‘You know,’ Varric commented, leaning forward. The bounty of his chest hair nearly blinded Anders when the light hit it just so. He wasn’t quite ready to look at it head-on. It was so _very_ curly and golden. ‘This whole business of unburdening yourself _usually_ works better when somebody starts talking.’

‘Oh, Varric,’ Anders said, making a show of batting his eyelashes. ‘You know the sight of you takes my breath away. Give a man a minute to compose himself.’

‘It’s the chest hair, isn’t it?’ Varric asked, not missing a beat. ‘You humans seem to be powerless against it.’

Anders let out a sigh, not quite a laugh, not quite a groan of utter despair. He did so enjoy his banter with Varric. It was a shame things couldn’t always be like this between them. While Anders didn’t know the Varric in _his_ world all that well yet, it was evident that _this_ Varric liked Anders very much. _Why_ he couldn’t possibly imagine, but perhaps he didn’t need to understand that much. It was enough to know that Other Anders hadn’t managed to drive away _all_ of his friends just yet; that meant something, something important.

Anders simply had to hope now that he wouldn’t inadvertently finish the job for him during his little stay.

‘I was doing some research,’ he explained. ‘At his clinic in Darktown. _Charming_ bit of real estate, that. I do wonder how he manages to hang onto it.’

‘That’s…a harder feat to pull off than you might think,’ Varric said, gesturing for him to continue. ‘Go on. Don’t tell me, you’ve found the last ingredient and it’s the milk from a broodmother’s tit, ‘cause I’m sure as shit not gonna be the one milking it.’

‘ _Eugh,_ ’ Anders said, put off from his worries entirely. Varric was good like that. One had to wonder whether he was doing it on purpose, the sneaky bastard. ‘That’s just… You _can’t_ joke about things like that, Varric. Not with a Grey Warden. The memories are still too fresh.’

‘So you were still a Warden,’ Varric noted. ‘Interesting.’

‘You’re being very distracting, Varric,’ Anders informed him. ‘You have no idea how bad that is for me, particularly because I _loathe_ actually coming to the point of anything. Especially when it’s a conversation of substance. Even _more_ especially when I have bad news.’

‘Can’t be worse than broodmothers,’ Varric said, like that was somehow what he’d been planning all along.

‘Or their tits,’ Anders agreed.

Varric simply grinned.

‘What would you say if it turned out that we’d been going about this all wrong?’ Anders asked. He drummed his fingers against his leg beneath the table, feeling awkward. ‘Like, say that list of ingredients I found was for something else—Maker only knows what, though; _I_ certainly can’t imagine—and not what brought me here at all?’

‘Well,’ Varric said. He cleared his throat, leaning back in his seat. The leather padding creaked underneath his back. Anders braced himself for the worst. ‘First of all… I’d say we could use some drinks.’

*

Things happened rather quickly after that, and it didn’t leave Anders very much time to feel relieved. Varric called Edwina up to his room and, being the beautiful understanding soul of mercy that she was, she came bearing _whiskey_.

Once he’d wet his throat, it was easier for Anders to come out about what he’d found in the clinic. More importantly, it was easier for him to talk about what he _hadn’t_ found. By his estimation, coupled with what he’d learned from the book, if Other Anders had tried any of the spells that used drakestone, it wouldn’t have passed unnoticed. There would have been a far larger effect than just simply dragging an alternate personality to the wrong world.

Varric was smart enough that he didn’t need Anders to explain the problem he had now. They were back to square one, he didn’t know how to tell Garrett, _and_ —as though all of that wasn’t enough—Anders was no longer sure how he could expect to return to his own world.

It was a rather large concern. Perhaps understandably, it required a great deal of whiskey to sate his frantic musings.

‘Blondie,’ Varric said, when Anders reached the point where he had to stop to take a breath. ‘You’re overreacting.’

‘ _Overreacting?_ ’ Anders asked, stretching the word out to its most threadbare limits in his disbelief.

‘We haven’t exhausted all our options yet,’ Varric explained. ‘Not hardly. For example, did you know that the First Enchanter is on relatively good terms with the Imperium? I wouldn’t say they’re all buddy-buddy or anything, but he petitioned them to take on a Circle mage with elvish blood just last year. He’s gotta have _some_ contacts there. And with contacts comes information. The good kind, not the sort that you get wallowing in dragon shit.’

‘Oh, only the First Enchanter?’ Anders asked. His voice was growing squeakier alongside his rising panic. ‘Well, why didn’t you _say so,_ Varric. We’ll just march into the Gallows and request an audience. I’m sure a dwarf, an apostate, and the Champion of Kirkwall won’t raise any eyebrows.’

‘You’re forgetting Sunshine,’ Varric said.

‘Easy to forget sunshine when you’re down in Darktown,’ Anders said, then, ‘Ohhh, but you mean Bethany. That being your nickname for her. Merrill told me; she’s a dreadful gossip. Now—don’t tell me she and the First Enchanter are lovers?’ He leaned closer over the table. ‘Because that would be _terribly_ exciting. On second thought: yes. Please tell me that.’

‘All depends on who you ask,’ Varric replied. ‘I’ve got a series that just might imply the very thing. But her name’s not Bethany, it’s Elizabeth, and it all takes place in a distant city called _Middletown._ Top notch stuff,’ Varric added. ‘Real classy. Ladies in Hightown like to read it, what with all the fancy language I throw in.’

‘And Garrett hasn’t found out about it yet?’ Anders asked.

‘Champion doesn’t have much time for recreational reading these days,’ Varric replied.

Anders was blissfully scandalized. ‘Because I’m _guessing_ he might not be happy if he knew you were using and abusing his poor, dear sister,’ he added.

‘What Hawke doesn’t know won’t kill me,’ Varric said.

Making a mental note to ask Varric for a copy of the first installment—should he be left alone in the Hawke estate again, it would be beneficial to have something suitably juicy to entertain himself with—Anders forced himself to focus just a little more than he usually did. He hated being the one to bring a conversation back on topic, but this whole experience was causing him to grow as a person and, according to some people, that was a good thing; it should be nurtured, not squashed like a mean Darktown bug under the heel of one’s boot. But Maker, it was uncomfortable as anything. ‘So Bethany’s one of your contacts, and you shake her down for information, get her to cozy up to the First Enchanter, ask him some things, our _inside man_ —or shall I say woman. But that implies you think I know what we should even be asking.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Varric said. ‘I’m a dwarf, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ Anders asked.

Varric proved Anders’s point by scratching the glossy pelt on his chest, then patting his belly. ‘I don’t _do_ magic. Not anymore. Last time we got caught up in mage-stuff was back in the Deep Roads, and let me tell you, I’m not looking to repeat that little picnic again.’

‘What happened in the Deep Roads?’ Anders asked. ‘Wait—you went to the Deep Roads? Why would you _ever_ do something like that when you aren’t a Warden?’

‘Long story,’ Varric replied.

Anders smiled hopefully over his tankard. ‘But you love long stories, Varric.’

‘They’ve got a time and place,’ Varric said. ‘Now’s pretty much neither. Unless you’re looking to be stuck here forever, in which case…’

‘…in which case you know a few people who wouldn’t really mind because I’ve won you all over with my irreverent charm?’ Anders suggested.

‘Sure,’ Varric agreed. He leveled a look at Anders across the table, dead-center as a cross-bolt. ‘But one of ‘em wouldn’t be Hawke.’

Blighted dwarves and their impeccable aim. _This_ was why they should all be grunting, snorting, belching _axe_ -swingers, or off farming mushrooms, or raising nugs. Once you let them out of their particular fields they started using all their wisdom and insight and history to make others feel terribly insignificant. Or they farted in your direction while you were trying to sleep. Both outcomes were equally unpleasant.

‘Fine,’ Anders grumbled. ‘But I think better when I’m not thinking. You tell the story, and _I’ll_ come up with something.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Varric said, and whetted his throat, like he just knew he was in it for the long-haul.

*

Varric told him all about the Deep Roads, the lyrium idol, and Bartrand’s betrayal; the primeval thaig, the demon of hunger and all the magnificent treasure they found in its lair. Less magnificent was what happened after, when they returned to the city to learn Bethany had been taken by the templars, and Garrett’s mother was devastated, while everyone agreed it hadn’t really been worth it, but at least the Hawke family now had an enormous mansion.

It was a thrilling tale, one that had particular resonance with Anders because, as he told Varric, he _hated_ the blighted Deep Roads.

‘Funny,’ Varric replied, during a brief pause in his storytelling. ‘That’s _exactly_ what he said.’

Funny or uncanny—Anders supposed Varric had used up all his better word choices for storytelling, which he returned to willingly enough, giving Anders all the dirty details on the life he hadn’t lived. And thank the Maker for that. So many ups and downs: mining excursions, trips to the Dalish, fighting qunari along the Wounded Coast, a thousand and one skirmishes with Coterie thugs and Carta thugs and regular thugs and hired thugs and specialized thugs that one had to wonder how anyone decided it paid to become a thug in Kirkwall; there were so many of them it made Anders tired just _hearing_ about then. Then, there was all the _interpersonal_ drama—as far as Anders could tell, he hated Fenris, Fenris hated him, and almost everybody hated Merrill.

‘Because of the blood magic thing.’ Anders nodded sagely. ‘Gets them every time. I tell you, Varric, it just doesn’t pay.’

‘Daisy gets by all right,’ Varric replied. ‘Don’t you worry about her. She’ll be just fine.’

‘Oh, no, Varric,’ Anders said. ‘ _She’s_ not the one I’m worried about. Mostly, I just worry about myself.’

‘Noble of you,’ Varric said, but he was grinning.

Anders shrugged it off the way he shrugged off most things. ‘I do my best.’

Then Varric confirmed for Anders what he already knew: that everyone in Kirkwall was at least partially out of their minds, for various reasons, the nobles hating the qunari and the Lowtowners hating the refugees and the mages hating the templars while the templars hated the mages. The Coterie was trying to inch in on Carta territory while the Carta was trying to pick off the members of the Coterie, and meanwhile Garrett had managed to bring things to a head with the Arishok by, as Anders already knew, being tossed about on his blade for a while, less like a champion and more like a child’s plaything.

‘So does he give people gifts?’ Anders asked. ‘Win them over by always knowing what to pick out? _That’s_ what I want to know. It’s just that the Warden Commander always did that,’ he explained, when Varric looked at him funny, ‘and they’re related and all, and Champion does seem about as weighty as Hero…’

‘Now that you mention it…’ Varric said, rubbing at the stubble on his broad chin. ‘He does give things out from time to time. Always figured it was to keep up morale. Except sometimes you have to wonder what he’s thinking. Gave Isabela a ship in a bottle, of all things—not what you give to a real pirate looking for a _real_ boat, and as you can probably imagine, Isabela doesn’t like anything in miniature—while I’m pretty sure he gave _you_ a Tevinter Chantry Amulet one time. You liked it, of course, ‘cause you were sweet on him, but it was damn close to hanging a sign around your neck saying _Pick Me: I’m The Apostate You’re Looking For._ ’

‘Say that again,’ Anders told him.

‘ _Pick Me,_ ’ Varric obliged. ‘ _I’m The Apostate You’re Looking For._ Hey, you’re right, Blondie—it’s catchy. Might just be the title for my next Middletown book, too.’

‘No,’ Anders said. ‘The part before that. The Tevinter Chantry Amulet part.’

Varric gave him an odd look. ‘Don’t tell me you’re angling to get one of your own? Because I’m pretty sure that was a one-time deal. He found it in an abandoned slaver den, or something equally unbelievable. One of those random Champion of Kirkwall finds, something only Hawke could pull off.’

‘No, it’s just…’ Anders trailed off, attempting frantically to recall what had been written in Other Anders’s favorite tome. Famous Tevinter Artifacts and the various properties and attributes intrinsic to them—by itself, the amulet was nothing, but in a place like _Kirkwall_ , and in the possession of a rare abomination, it had to mean something. ‘I believe I saw an amulet like that mentioned in one of his books. Anders’s books, I mean. He has a veritable Tevinter encyclopedia down there among the refuse, did you know that?’

‘ _Really_ now?’ Varric asked. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. ‘Well shave me bald, braid my chest hair, and marry me off to King Bhelen—what are the odds? You think that little trinket’s the cause of this big mess?’

‘I didn’t until just now,’ Anders admitted. ‘I didn’t know he _had_ one. Anyway, I’m not saying it even _could_ do something like that. I just saw it mentioned. I’d have to read the passage over again—I’m afraid I rather skipped that part because it came at the end and Arcanum has so many syllables…’

‘Say no more,’ Varric said, holding up his hands. ‘Ancient lore and historical artifacts. Can’t say they’re exactly _my_ cup of tea, either. After what happened with Bartrand, I read what felt like every book in the chantry archives on lyrium. The headaches I got were out of this world.’

Anders cringed in affable sympathy, just as the sound of floorboards creaking outside the door alerted him to someone else’s presence nearby. Before Anders even had the time to wonder who it might be—that talkative elf fellow, Merrill the blood mage, or perhaps even the heretofore elusive Sebastian—Garrett came storming in the door. He did a double-take when he spotted Anders, then slackened like a ship’s sails losing their wind.

‘You’re here,’ Garrett said. He didn’t sound all that excited about it, either.

‘So I am,’ Anders replied, trying not to make the awkward sexual tension apparent to everyone else. _Everyone else_ being _just Varric_ at the moment, but he was even worse about keeping things private than Merrill. ‘And you’re here, too. And so is Varric. And—’

‘Where _were_ you?’ Garrett demanded.

That was a surprise, and frankly, just a little insulting. ‘Where was _I_?’ Anders asked. ‘I wasn’t the one who stormed off, that’s for certain. And I seem to recall eating breakfast alone this morning, myself. Unless that’s how things are done in this alternate Kirkwall, and I’ve just been _missing out_ on some important rule of etiquette.’

Varric cleared his throat. ‘Just like old times, huh, Hawke? Excellent timing, as always. …I’ll go and get Bianca.’

The dwarf got down from the table and moved smoothly into the adjoining room. That, of course, left Anders alone with Garrett. His shoulders rose and fell with every breath that he took, and his skin looked damp with sweat. It was almost as though Garrett expected Anders to believe that he’d been running all over Lowtown looking for him, when Garrett knew _very well_ that he’d been the one to leave first. The sheer nerve of him! Just because Garrett Hawke was the Champion of Kirkwall didn’t mean he could get away with such revisionist history.

No; revisionist history really seemed to be Varric’s job.

‘It’s not…’ Garrett said. He licked his lips nervously. The light from the hall was at his back, which made it difficult for Anders to read the expression on his face.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Anders asked.

‘It isn’t…how things are done in Kirkwall. This Kirkwall. _Here_ ,’ Garrett clarified. He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. ‘I shouldn’t have— I had some things I needed to take care of. It didn’t have anything to do with you.’

‘In that case, I’m insulted,’ Anders said. He slapped the table comically for good measure. It made him feel a mix of guilty and pleased in equal measure when Garrett startled at the sudden noise. ‘I spent all morning thinking it had _everything_ to do with me. Do you know what that sort of suspicion does for a man’s already inflated self esteem?’

Garrett opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Right. Of course. I don’t…’ A befuddled look passed across his face as he squinted, trying to divine whether this was a trap. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not needed,’ Anders chirped , somewhat stiffly.

He stood, feeling strangely proud of himself. He didn’t normally count dissipating tension among his many _varied_ talents, but apparently he was just as adaptable as he was fun _and_ charming. Not to mention unexpectedly handsome. Besides, it wasn’t as though there was much to say. Garrett clearly thought otherwise, but that was all the more reason to shut him up before he could get started. The kind of conversation he clearly wanted to have right now was _not_ the kind of conversation they needed to get into in Varric’s private rooms in the Hanged Man.

What was more, it wasn’t the kind of talk Garrett needed to have with _him_. They weren’t in a relationship. Anders was well-versed in the dance of an awkward one-night stands and it didn’t involve going over your _feelings_ with your partner in crime long after it happened.

From the back room, Varric let out a cough. ‘We all set to go?’

Garrett seemed to come back to himself at the sound of Varric’s voice. He jerked his head up, giving Anders an uncertain look. ‘…Did I miss something? Where exactly _are_ we going?’

‘I’ll fill you in,’ Anders said. ‘And for once I can _promise_ it has nothing to do with the sewers. Champion of Kirkwall, this is your _lucky_ day.’

*

If it had felt awkward rifling through Other Anders’s private things before, the experience was at least tripled while doing so in front of an audience. Anders couldn’t shake the feeling that Garrett was going to grunt at him in disapproval every time he moved something, or forbid him outright from fumbling around Other Anders’s bed. Yet, surprisingly, both Varric and Garrett remained silent for the duration of the looting, waiting for Anders to produce the fabled tome.

Surely there was a joke in there somewhere. _What does it take to keep a dwarf, a mage, and the Champion of Kirkwall quiet?_ But Anders wasn’t exactly in a joking mood.

‘Here we are,’ Anders said. ‘Favorite pillow from long-lost mother, dirty stained blanket, secret hiding spot underneath very uncomfortable mattress, and ancient tome of Tevinter lore. Just another day in Darktown for our good friend Anders.’ Anders clapped his hand against the cover. ‘This is more research in a single day than I think I did during my entire stay at the Ferelden Circle. …Unless you count the _extracurricular research_ , of course.’ He wiggled his brows, noted his audience wasn’t duly impressed, and heaved a much-beleaguered sigh. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered. ‘That one usually goes over so much better. You’re a terrible crowd, did you know that?’

‘Blondie,’ Varric warned.

‘Oh, hold onto your nugs, Varric,’ Anders told him, perching on a nearby crate as he read. Arcanum, Arcanum, Arcanum—why did the blighted language have to have so many tenses? And why had Anders skipped so many of his lessons while he was still in the Circle? He flipped through the pages and devoured the words there, doing his best to maintain the general sense of anticipation. ‘Tevinter Chantry Amulet!’ he crowed, feeling extremely proud of himself, while Garrett and Varric leaned closer, giving him so much attention he thought he might burst. ‘All right. Well. That’s interesting.’

‘Care to enlighten us, Anders?’ Garrett asked.

‘They are, as you might expect, amulets from the chantry in Tevinter,’ Anders said. ‘Illuminating. Ah, yes, and… _Some_ of them are imbued with magical energy, good, excellent. There you have it, then.’

Anders glanced up, expectant, to find Garrett staring back at him. He looked about as far from impressed as one _could_ look. ‘…There we have _what_ , exactly?’

‘Imbued with magical energy,’ Anders repeated. ‘ _And_ from Tevinter. Don’t be so skeptical, Garrett; this really could be something!’

‘Do you know what I think?’ Garrett asked. No one requested further information, but he continued to enlighten them anyway. ‘I think this is all a practical joke, designed to once more insult my gift-giving prowess. Excellent set-up; very well executed. A bit too much time and effort put into the whole thing, but Anders, really, you’re an excellent actor.’

‘Thank you,’ Anders said, since there was no reason to waste a perfectly good compliment, even if it hadn’t been meant for him. ‘But let me just say, this is the risk in picking up everything you come by willy-nilly and giving _dangerous abominations_ pieces of jewelry originally from _Tevinter_. I mean, one moment you’re observing yourself in the mirror, wearing the amulet close to your chest, feeling all happy someone you care about was thinking of you when he was apparently rifling through piles of rubble or something, and the next thing you know you’re having a bad day, a certain nasty elf’s insulted you one time too many, your innate abomination…yness combines with the mystical power already housed within the artifact, you make a careless little wish, and _boom!_ Magic happens.’

‘You know, if I believed in the Maker,’ Varric said, ‘I’d thank him every day for making me a dwarf. Not having to deal with magic at all? Now _that’s_ a blessing.’

Anders waved his hand dismissively. ‘Yes, Varric, how wonderful it must be to be you. We are all extremely envious. Garrett, stop looking at me like I’m crazy.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Garrett said. ‘My face just naturally does this when you’re speaking sometimes. Force of habit. Do you _really_ think it could be the amulet?’

‘I _really_ think that we _really_ have _really_ few options at this point,’ Anders replied. It wasn’t the most convincing thing he could have said, but it was the most honest. Yet another reason honesty was never the answer.

‘Varric?’ Garrett asked.

‘Why does everybody come to the dwarf with these things?’ Varric looked up to the ceiling, saw one of the old water stains there, and grimaced, looking down again quickly. ‘Once again: I’m not the go-to guy for anything to do with magic. Remember?’

‘I was just asking for your opinion,’ Garrett explained. ‘As a professional story teller. On a scale of one to fifteen, how implausible is this _really_?’

Varric chewed it over for a few moments. ‘In my professional opinion? I’d say it’s slightly less implausible than _a dragon saved me from the darkspawn horde back in Ferelden_ , slightly more implausible than _I defeated the Arishok in single combat._ ’

‘Fair enough,’ Garrett said.

‘Oh, so you’ll believe it when Varric endorses the theory, but not when I come up with it?’ Anders shook his head and patted his chest, right over the heart. ‘You _wound_ me, Garrett.’

‘Only when you deserve it,’ Garrett replied, with the beginnings of a wicked grin. He was just as relieved as Anders felt, and was it any surprise? He wanted things to go back to the way they were just as much, if not more, than anybody. Even Anders, whose _life_ this was, just in case anyone had forgotten about that part of the equation.

‘Well all right then,’ Varric said. ‘We get the amulet, Blondie does his sparklefingers bit, he wishes with all his heart, and things go back to the way they were. For good _or_ ill,’ he added, with a wink in Anders’s direction.

‘You like me,’ Anders said. ‘You _really_ like me.’

‘Just don’t go telling the others,’ Varric replied.

‘What a marvelous plan,’ Garrett said, interrupting their little moment. ‘But we’re forgetting one small detail.’

‘Why can’t you let us have happiness, Garrett?’ Anders asked. ‘Even for a moment? Varric, why does Garrett hate happiness?’

‘Beats me,’ Varric replied. ‘Sure is a sad sight, though.’

Garrett, impressively, managed to ignore them. ‘Anders was wearing that amulet,’ he continued. ‘He _always_ wore it. He never took the damn thing off.’

‘Never?’ Anders asked with a leer.

‘Not even when he was naked, he didn’t,’ Garrett confirmed, not batting an eye at the insinuation.

Realization dawned on Anders—miserable, wretched, damning realization. ‘…Which means the amulet isn’t here,’ he began.

‘…And we can’t use it,’ Varric concluded.

Now it was just the three of them in the Darktown clinic, alone with their shattered hopes and broken dreams. Anders put the tome back in its rightful place, gently setting the pillow on top of it, doing the bed and once more avoiding touching the stain.

‘Varric, I don’t suppose any of your contacts might…turn up a thing like that?’ Garrett asked. He sounded as though he already knew the answer was _not on your life, Champion_ , and was bracing himself for the reply.

‘It’d be long odds at best, Hawke,’ Varric said. He cracked his short, thick neck, looking thoughtful. ‘There was a time when you couldn’t turn around in the black market without tripping over something valuable from the Imperium—a tome, or a trinket, something pretty for a special lady friend. These days, the way Knight-Commander Meredith’s been cracking down, it’d be like chasing a raindrop in a storm.’

‘What about the First Enchanter?’ Anders found himself asking. Despite how much he’d disliked the idea initially—anything taking him closer to the Gallows couldn’t possibly be a good idea—he was beginning to feel desperate. ‘To hear you tell it, he’s practically an honorary archon. _I_ bet he’s positively swimming in amulets. That is, when he’s not busy with Eliza _beth_ —’

Varric was suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit. Or maybe it was laughter. Either way, he’d wisely timed it to interrupt before Anders could reveal his secret to Garrett—whose name in the serial romance was probably something subtle, like _Gareth._

‘What was that?’ Garrett asked. His mouth twisted in confusion as he looked between Varric and Anders. ‘You think First Enchanter Orsino will help us?’

‘You helped _him_ when the qunari were taking over the city,’ Varric pointed out. ‘And he shipped Feynriel off to the Imperium for you nice and easy, didn’t he? A man who can pull that off’s gotta have some sway up north. …It’s not entirely a bad idea.’

‘My idea,’ Anders pointed out. ‘I’ll take credit for that, thank you.’

Garrett crossed his arms. He fixed Anders with a look, scratching a stray itch on his elbow. ‘You want to go to the Gallows?’

‘ _Want_ is an incredibly strong word,’ Anders said, quickly. ‘It implies a lot about a person, don’t you think? That’s a very personal question, Garrett! Especially in front of the dwarf. Varric. Especially in front of my dear friend Varric, who loves me more than the rest of all our friends combined.’ No, Anders thought; he didn’t _want_ to go to the Gallows any more than he’d wanted to become a Grey Warden, or delve into the Deep Roads, or rid the world of broodmothers. Sometimes, one was just confronted with a set of choices that were all equally terrible. Choosing the lesser of two miseries was a particular talent Anders had cultivated over the years. What other decision could he make?

He could avoid the Gallows forever and ignore their best lead on solving this problem, _or_ he could man up and face his fears for just long enough to meet with the First Enchanter and Garrett’s dead sister. In fact, it was almost as if the entire point of this field trip was forcing Anders into situations that made him uncomfortable.

He was growing as a person, but none of the people _he_ knew could even see his progress and congratulate him on it. And what was the point of personal growth if you didn’t get the accolades you deserved?

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Garrett said, after waiting the compulsory amount of time to see if Anders would continue.

‘Sure he did.’ Varric threw a wink Anders’s way, hoisting Bianca higher on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get going, seeing as how that was a solid _yes_ in Blondie-speak. You really need to brush up on your translations.’

‘No one understands me like you do, Varric,’ Anders said gratefully.

‘I’m beginning to think all those times I told myself not to be jealous, I was just fooling myself,’ Garrett mused.

‘Don’t take it too hard, Hawke,’ Varric advised. ‘Humans find me irresistible. Even the Champion of Kirkwall can’t compete with all _this_.’

*

The Gallows were exactly as terrible as Anders remembered, somehow worse because he was sailing there on purpose, this time. In his world, he and Garrett were apostates together—they’d _both_ agreed to the wisdom of avoiding the old slave prison as soon as they got out of it. This time, Anders was all too aware of the fact that he was the only mage in the group.

It shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did.

The white marble courtyard was the same as ever, although this time it was filled with templars instead of refugees. Anders was being careful—he didn’t even have his staff—but there was no telling what sort of reputation _Other_ Anders had garnered here. He didn’t exactly give off the impression of being _subtle_ or at all able to keep his opinions to himself. It was impossible to imagine the templars didn’t at least know about him, and if they knew about him, that probably meant they wanted to do very bad things to him on sight.

Anders drew closer to Garrett as they made their way through the courtyard, heading in the direction of the templar hall.

‘Shouldn’t we make an appointment?’ Anders asked. ‘Perhaps leave our names at the desk: Hawke, party of three?’

‘A dwarf, an apostate, and the Champion of Kirkwall walk into the templar hall,’ Varric began.

‘ _Don’t_ start,’ Garrett warned. He glanced over his shoulder, gaze softening as it landed on Anders. ‘We don’t need to make an appointment. I have connections.’

‘Show-off,’ Varric muttered. ‘He just can’t control himself around you. It’s sweet, really.’

Anders smiled tightly, a retort dying in his throat as they passed by a templar with great bloody wings on his helmet.

‘Maker’s blessing on you,’ the templar said.

 _You have no idea,_ Anders thought.

They followed Garrett up the stairs and down a long corridor, past templars, and templars, and even more templars. He made a left-hand turn, and knocked casually on the second door he saw. Anders did his best not to crawl right up onto Garrett’s back and hide himself there.

‘Just a moment,’ said a voice from inside.

‘You’re not looking so good, Blondie,’ Varric muttered.

‘Really? Because I’m feeling absolutely _marvelous_ ,’ Anders said. ‘I adore templars, and let me tell you, they just _love_ me.’ A little more quietly, he added, ‘Did I ever tell you about the affair of the heart I had with one back in Ferelden? She was always chasing after me, and I was always playing it ever so indifferent, giving her the slip, driving her wild with desire. She found me completely irresistible because of it. Time and tides and fate intervened, and I’m sad to say it was never consummated, but I still think about those days sometimes. You know, we always want what we just can’t have.’

‘Now that’d make a good story,’ Varric murmured thoughtfully.

‘Yes: _Cozy by Calenhad_ ,’ Anders agreed, his heartbeat calming somewhat. The banter helped; it was ever so soothing. Varric knew that and he was doing it on purpose, and Anders really did love him for it. ‘Or, if you’re looking for something a little more racy, you could always go with—’

In a moment of impeccable timing, the door swung open, and there stood the First Enchanter, as gray as one would expect a mage living in the Gallows might be. Anders lifted a hand to the hair at his temple, smoothing it back behind one ear, willing it not to turn _white_ from just a few hours in the place. He’d already found one gray hair, on the morning before he departed for Kirkwall. It had been a sign, and Anders should’ve heeded it, but these things were all so much more obvious in hindsight.

The First Enchanter was also an elf, with those oft-unfathomable elvhen eyes, and his First Enchanter’s robes were so long Anders couldn’t see whether or not he was wearing shoes of some kind underneath. That, more than anything, was a grave disappointment, since Anders had never met a shoeless First Enchanter before, yet by the same token, he’d never met an elf who _wasn’t_ shoeless.

What a paradox.

‘Ah. Champion,’ First Enchanter Orsino said. ‘How unexpected. Has there been more trouble?’

‘Not at all—you know how hard it is for me to stay away from this place,’ Garrett replied, turning on the charm like a lever had been thrown. ‘All this architecture, all this history—and all the _templars._ It’s the best spot in the city for a relaxing stroll. May we come in?’

‘The Knight Commander will not be pleased to see us in such close association, Champion,’ the First Enchanter said. Then—and Anders was nearly sure of it—his lips twitched, like he was about to smile. It was a minute detail, not all that important, but it _really_ made Anders appreciate him. ‘It would be an honor if you would join me. By all means, do come in.’

*

Normally business meetings were the best way for Anders to catch some much-needed shut-eye, but watching Garrett doing what he did best, spinning a web of lies that even the cleverest of giant spiders would have reason to envy, proved all too fascinating. Whether or not the First Enchanter suspected anything other than Garrett’s story—which downplayed the amulet angle and instead focused on his desire to investigate certain objects of Tevinter power and their effect on Kirkwall at large—was impossible to say; once again, elvhen eyes were unfathomable, offering about the same type of expression when they were about to kiss you as when they were about to trap you in a thorny briar and leave you for the crows.

‘It _is_ possible,’ the First Enchanter mused, after Garrett was completely finished, while Varric and Anders shared a moment of being suitably impressed by his ability to bullshit on command. ‘Some have theorized something similar, if you’ve read certain essays on the Enigma of Kirkwall—but I’m sure you didn’t come here for a lecture, did you? No—you are hardly the sort.’

‘You know me so well,’ Garrett said.

The First Enchanter nodded. ‘It is an honor to have the opportunity. An honor, too, that you _would_ come to me.’

‘Well, Meredith keeps such difficult hours,’ Garrett replied, eyes sparkling.

‘Of course; of course. I find them…difficult, myself, among other things.’ The First Enchanter shook his head, folding his pale, graceful hands before him on his desk. ‘I am reasonably certain I _could_ procure such an item. It might take a few days, of course—but, given your continued support of the mages in Kirkwall, how could I refuse?’

Garrett eased up in his chair. ‘Very easily, I’m sure. People do it all the time.’

‘And so I wonder at them.’ The First Enchanter was smiling again. First Enchanter Irving back in Ferelden had smiled sometimes, too, and Anders had always found it very worrisome, considering how little there was to smile about. Even less so in Kirkwall than in Ferelden, although that little incident with all the blood mages and abominations hadn’t exactly been a picnic. ‘I will do what I can to assist you.’

‘And not just because you know just how much it’ll ruffle Meredith’s feathers?’ Garrett asked slyly. Of course he was close friends with the First Enchanter—he’d fought an Arishok, survived a Deep Roads expedition, and regularly slept with an abomination. Anders had no reason to be surprised by anything he did anymore.

‘That is quite the insinuation, Champion,’ the First Enchanter said. ‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean.’

*

‘Well,’ Anders said, taking a deep breath of open air to combat all the ancient tomes and dusty pages of the First Enchanter’s private office. It wasn’t quite free air just yet, since they were still in the Gallows, but it _was_ fresh and sunny, rather than close and stuffy and reeking of antique parchment and binding glue. ‘That went well, didn’t it?’

‘He _is_ the Champion,’ Varric reminded him.

‘And try not to say things like that _before_ we’re out of the Gallows,’ Garrett added. ‘In my experience, whenever someone begins to congratulate himself is when things suddenly, inexplicably go _wrong_.’

‘Hello brother,’ someone said from just behind them. ‘I didn’t know _you_ would be here.’

‘…Right on time,’ Garrett said, squinting up at the sky and shaking his head. Then, he turned around, holding open his arms. ‘Bethany! How unexpected—and what a lovely surprise.’

Anders craned his neck to catch his first glimpse of her—the fabled Bethany, the lost daughter Leandra Hawke still mourned, the other mage in the family. The one who _hadn’t_ made it out of Lothering.

Fortunately for her, she didn’t seem to have Carver’s chin. She looked very much like Leandra, in fact, and Anders almost missed Garrett’s wince as Bethany crossed her arms over her chest, a posture quite similar to her mother’s. Anders had seen it countless times, whenever Carver or Garrett were acting particularly asinine.

‘Didn’t think to write and let me know you’d be here, did you?’ Bethany asked. ‘Or are you much too busy these days, what with being Champion and all?’

‘It was really more of a spur of the moment thing, Bethany; I _knew_ you’d understand,’ Garrett replied. He’d apparently left his silver tongue behind in the First Enchanter’s offices, replacing it with one made entirely of lead.

‘Yes, as always.’ Bethany shifted her focus from him to the others, and when her eyes fell on Anders and Varric, she actually smiled. Anders immediately understood why Varric called her _Sunshine._ ‘Varric—and…Anders! I never thought I’d see _you_ here. This _is_ a lovely surprise.’

‘Didn’t I just say that?’ Garrett muttered, but everyone cruelly ignored him.

‘Hello, Bethany,’ Anders said. He even managed to sound cheerful about it. He really _was_ going to expect some sort of award after this venture. A medal, perhaps, or a large golden statue of himself in the center of Kirkwall.

On second thought, that would attract far too much attention. And after everything he’d seen, Anders was no longer certain that he even wanted to stay in Kirkwall long enough to have a statue built of him. If he made it back—no, when; _when_ he made it back—he was going to loop his arm through Garrett’s and drag him bodily onto the first ship to Antiva. If he didn’t want to travel that far, they could always go to Cumberland. Or Starkhaven. Orlais was supposed to be just lovely this time of year, not to mention all the accents and the cheeses.

Bethany’s mouth quirked and Anders realized he’d been staring. She looked so much like Garrett when she did that—Carver never grinned, only smirked, and grimly at that.

‘You boys certainly know how to make a girl feel welcome,’ Bethany said, shaking her head. ‘You aren’t even here to see me, and now when I come over the lot of you clam up. That’s _very_ friendly. More business you can’t let me know the first thing about?’

‘Honestly, I’m just surprised you’re speaking to me,’ Garrett said. ‘I was under the impression you weren’t interested in any more family reunions.’

‘I was talking to _Anders and Varric_.’ Bethany’s tone was just light enough that Anders couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not. The air felt the way it did right before someone cast a blizzard.

‘Of course you were, Sunshine,’ Varric said with a smile. ‘How’s life with the skirts treating you?’

‘The same as always, I’m afraid,’ Bethany said. She gave Anders a conspiratorial look, tugging at one of her voluminous sleeves. ‘Are you _really_ not going to tell me how they got you here? With Mother dead, Varric’s the only one who comes to visit me anymore. I’d all but resigned myself to my fate.’

‘You don’t have to make it sound that bad,’ Garrett said.

‘ _I_ think it sounds like the beginning of one of Varric’s stories,’ Anders pitched in helpfully. He still couldn’t tell whether this was some sort of bizarre Hawke family ribbing, or if they were actually as mad at each other as they seemed. ‘The lonely Circle mage, forsaken by her family—dreaming of a life of excitement and romance just beyond the walls of her cell…’

‘You keep on like that, you’re going to put me out of a job, Blondie,’ Varric said.

‘That sounds more like your life than mine,’ Bethany said. ‘From what you told me, I mean.’

‘Anders,’ Garrett chided. ‘What did I tell you about filling her head with that nonsense?’

‘Do it as often as possible?’ Anders ventured.

Bethany laughed. Normally the sound of someone laughing at his jokes made Anders relax and blossom into a vibrant social butterfly, but there was something about _this_ atmosphere that was keeping him on edge. He laughed along with his own joke, but his neck was cramping with how stiffly he was holding his shoulders. Somehow, the strain in the air between Garrett and Bethany was more oppressive than anything they’d encountered in the templar hall.

It wasn’t as though this was _so_ different from what Anders was used to. Garrett and Carver could barely share a room, let alone participate in the same conversation—but from the way Garrett talked about Bethany, Anders had always assumed things would be different between them.

If Garrett hadn’t been so obviously floundering, Anders would have written it off as his mistake, but it was clear that something in their dynamic was off. Garrett was swiping at shadows, ducking and weaving against a feigned assault. Having to be a rogue with a member of your own family, especially when there were so few members of it left... The more Anders learned about this Garrett, the more depressing the portrait of the man became.

It must have been the Circle; the damned _templars._ Anders had seen what it did to children when they were ripped away from their families. He’d never really thought about what it might do to a fully-grown adult.

Apparently, the Hawke family hadn’t caught a break since landing in Kirkwall. Being made _Champion_ seemed like a meager consolation prize.

‘You should come by more often,’ Bethany said, favoring Anders with another of her smiles. It got him right in the gut, just like Garrett’s did. ‘It’d be nice to have some company beyond the adepts and the First Enchanter. And—’ She hesitated. ‘—the tranquil.’

Garrett made a strangled sound. Anders wondered if he was supposed to react differently, and Varric nimbly stepped in to save him.

‘I’ll see you next week, Sunshine,’ he promised, while Anders wondered whether Bethany knew that Varric’s devotion was at least in part an effort at securing more material for his series.

*

As it turned out, Kirkwall was in the midst of some manner of Andrastian holiday. That explained the surplus of templars everywhere they were going; it _also_ meant that First Enchanter Orsino was going to have to wait to send his request out with a messenger to Tevinter. On their way back home from the Gallows, the chantry courtyard was packed with devout celebrators and hundreds of candles. Garrett ducked through them expertly, while Anders attempted not to light himself on fire.

The last thing he needed was to be immolated on a saint’s day. With his luck, even _that_ wouldn’t break the spell.

‘All right down there, Varric?’ Anders called back. Nothing cheered him up like drawing attention to a dwarf’s height. Even when surrounded by templars.

‘You watch out for yourself,’ Varric suggested. ‘Those feathers’ll go up like _that_ if you’re not careful.’

‘But just think of the _fantastic_ story it would make,’ Anders told him. ‘Dashing renegade with a scruffy exterior and a vast store of witty catchphrases; a glorious tragedy unfolding in front of the chantry; a _saint_ being born right before your eyes, in a column of fire and smoke—’

Varric shook his head. ‘No way, Blondie. Sounds way too dramatic, even for me.’

‘Shall we light a candle?’ Anders suggested, scrambling to keep up with Garrett’s brisk pace; the man was sensationally skilled at ducking and weaving, what with being an incorrigible rogue, and the crowd seemed to part before him—then close up again immediately in his wake. ‘It’s not as though I believe in the Chant of Light per se, but I do like all the excitement surrounding the ritual. It just seems like so much fun, doesn’t it? Kneeling and clasping your hands and getting carried away by the conviction of your beliefs—and a little praying couldn’t hurt right now. So: what do you say?’

Garrett stopped in his tracks. ‘Sebastian!’ he said.

‘Well, now _that’s_ a strange answer,’ Anders said, skidding to a halt behind him and crossing his arms. He half expected Varric to go barreling into his calves, but he drew up beside them oh-so-smoothly. Classic Varric. ‘And it doesn’t have anything to _do_ with anything, either. My name is Anders, Garrett— _Aaaandeeerrrs._ Really, I’m starting to worry about you. Are you getting enough sleep? Eating enough meat? Haven’t touched any Tevinter Chantry Amulets lately, have you?’

‘No,’ Garrett said, stepping neatly out of the way. Directly in front of him was a handsome fellow with white teeth, clean fingernails, powerfully _blue_ eyes and so much white armor Anders could practically see his own reflection in the polished breastplate. ‘I meant Sebastian, because look: it’s our good friend Sebastian Vael. We were beginning to wonder if you hadn’t turned into a collection of fingerbones yourself, Sebastian.’

‘We’re meeting everyone today, aren’t we?’ Anders asked.

Sebastian Vael—better known to Anders as the infamous Choir Boy—bowed his head and engaged in a sweet, innocent chuckle that would have been more believable on a wide-eyed, naive orphan than a fully grown man. ‘No, Hawke, not at all,’ he said, with a thick Starkhaven brogue. ‘I’ve been fasting.’

‘Fasting!’ Anders exclaimed. ‘How terrible. Whatever would you do something like _that_ for, while you’re still in the prime of your life?’

Sebastian blinked, brow furrowing, looking about as puzzled as people generally did whenever Anders spoke without thinking—which was any time Anders was speaking at all. ‘That is precisely why I must fast now, with all my strength devoted to the Maker. Those who pledge what they have already lost make no sacrifice at all. If not now, when? If not me, who else shall do it?’

Anders glanced down at Varric so they could share a moment. As anticipated, they did, with Varric rolling his eyes in the shadow cast by a very large prayer candle. It was impossible to believe that Sebastian was actually serious about all this. And yet so many people who made the funniest jokes often came to them accidentally, just in this fashion, by attempting gravity.

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ Anders said. ‘Suffering. Indeed. I know all about that myself, _personally_ , which is why I don’t look for new and exciting ways to experience it during my off hours—but to each his own, I always say. Shall we get some supper, everyone who isn’t fasting? I’d _love_ some supper.’

‘Hawke,’ Sebastian said, with a bow of his head and a continued expression of bafflement, as Anders pushed his way on through the throngs of worshippers in order to escape all that goodness.

‘I know,’ Anders said, once they’d found themselves a quiet alcove to pause in, ‘ _I know_ , that was all very rude of me. Just…tell him what happened, once he’s not fasting any longer; you can add that the Maker works in mysterious ways and who are we to question Him, and I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.’

Garrett’s lips were quirking again, that not-quite-grin he shared with Bethany. ‘No,’ he said, ‘actually, that’s exactly the sort of behavior Sebastian expects from you. I doubt he noticed anything was different.’

‘But is he _really_ pledged to the Maker?’ Anders asked, as they were forced to take the long way back to the estate to avoid all the revelry.

‘So he tells us, time and again,’ Varric confirmed.

Anders bowed his head, not in a moment of prayer, but rather in mourning. ‘How very depressing,’ he said. ‘And he was so attractive! …Did anyone else notice this—was that _Andraste_ on his crotch, by any chance?’

*

Waiting for further news and reminding himself every other minute that a full week had already passed him by wasn’t the way to make time fly, and so Anders devoted himself to the one thing he never thought he’d do again after leaving the Wardens: _hard work._ Garrett was busy Championing all the time, helping out in the Bone Pit and running through the nighttime streets of Hightown and Lowtown and all the other towns riddled with hardened criminals and blood mages and the like. Anders joined him and the others—sometimes Merrill and Isabela, sometimes Fenris and Sebastian, sometimes Varric and Aveline, but all times jolly good fun—to help make Kirkwall a better place, a thankless task with no apparent end, and no real rewards, other than all-too-frequent flesh wounds.

‘Hold still,’ Anders said, but attempting to _heal_ Fenris was about as easy as it was to bathe a cat. A _mean_ cat. One that had been raised by Genlocks.

‘Do not _touch_ me, _mage_ ,’ Fenris replied.

Anders waited for the hissing and the spitting and the fur to stand on end. He really didn’t have the patience necessary to insist he continue something just because it was right, especially not when it appeared he was going to lose his fingers—and also maybe his hands—if he kept at it.

The satisfaction of knowing he’d done the right thing, or the satisfaction of knowing there weren’t bloody stumps at the ends of both arms… It was no contest, really.

‘Honestly?’ Anders asked. ‘You want me—the person _healing_ you right now, in case you hadn’t noticed—to stop touching you?’

‘That is what I said,’ Fenris replied. ‘Perhaps you had best heal your own ears.’

‘No wonder you’re not sleeping, Garrett,’ Anders said, abandoning the task, just like Fenris wanted. ‘You’re surrounded by children. Children with big swords, and even bigger egos.’

So things weren’t exactly going smoothly, but all the fighting—and not just with the gangs of Kirkwall—was _one_ way to pass the time. And Garrett, at least, allowed Anders to heal him without complaining.

Things were still awkward between them after what had _nearly_ happened that night, but Anders was perfectly willing to put it behind him. Sometimes, after imbibing an exceptional amount of alcohol, two men did things that either one or both of them came to regret in the full light of day. It was just a fact of life, like rain, or mud, or poisonous spiders, or _templars._

Garrett didn’t jerk away when Anders laid a hand on his shoulder to heal a nasty-looking scrape; that was all that really mattered.

And Fenris could just help himself to an elfroot potion, if he needed it.

*

Two days later, and Anders was more than ready to charge into the Gallows and wait in the center of the courtyard for news from Tevinter. He wouldn’t—mostly because all the tranquil gave him the creepy crawlies—but if they didn’t leave the Wounded Coast soon, he was _going_ to do something drastic. There was too much sand, and the smell of the _ocean_ , and seemingly endless twisting paths that all spat you out into the same place after wandering around for hours, _uphill_. Raiders liked to camp in the in the off-shoots, and Aveline had charged them with using their spare time productively by helping out the guard.

‘So you just do this sort of thing all the time?’ Anders asked, shouting over the crackle of electricity as he fried an assassin about to plunge his blades into Garrett’s back.

‘Only when I’m feeling particularly virtuous,’ Garrett called back.

‘Some of us have hobbies besides sitting in the cramped dark writing our manifestos,’ Fenris announced.

‘ _Is_ killing considered a hobby, these days?’ Anders wondered aloud. ‘That’s awfully gruesome.’

‘Virtue is a topic you could stand to ruminate on,’ Sebastian suggested, coming to the forefront. In a moment of irony—at least, Anders _thought_ it was irony; the distinction between it and hypocrisy was always so difficult for him—he stepped on a raider’s shoulder to retrieve an arrow from her corpse. ‘In my own, personal opinion. It may yet do you some good, Anders. I can tell your soul is troubled.’

‘My soul is none of your business,’ Anders replied. He exchanged a fleeting look with Garrett, just to make sure he was still on point with his tone.

While at first he’d been worried about being too rude to a complete stranger, he’d been assured that he wasn’t going over the top in the slightest. Anders had initially thought it might be difficult to create a strong sense of animosity over nothing, but—as he was quickly discovering—Sebastian was startlingly easy to dislike. They agreed on nothing; Anders found him hypocritical, cold-hearted and sanctimonious, and no doubt Sebastian felt the same way in return. If it had merely been the former trait, perhaps they could have got on, but combined with the latter two, he became _intolerable._

All things considered, it was _quite_ simple to keep up appearances, and not confuse any of Garrett’s friends by acting _too_ unexpected.

True to form, Sebastian let out a weary sigh, shouldering his bow once more.

‘Praying to the Maker for patience?’ Anders asked cheerfully. This time, when he caught Garrett’s eye, Garrett shook his head.

This all would have been _so_ much more fun with Varric along, but the dwarf had begged off, citing a need to pay attention to his Kirkwall empire. Privately, Anders knew he was just looking for a way to weasel out of visiting the Wounded Coast _again_ , and thereby avoiding a night of white sand in his boots and the smell of salt and mud on his skin.

‘We could all use a little patience,’ Garrett said. He wiped the blood from his blades before taking off again, heading ever up the path.

*

Anders didn’t pray to the Maker, nor did he think about Andraste’s ample wish-granting bosom, but somehow news of the Tevinter Chantry Amulet reached them the next day anyway, proving prayer didn’t mean as much as Sebastian thought it did.

If the good prince of Starkhaven had been there, Anders would have taken the opportunity to dance about and gloat in his face. Perhaps he’d even have whipped out the famed spicy shimmy, to which Sigrun had so heartily protested. _But,_ since the news came over breakfast, Sebastian was sadly not present, and Anders supposed he had to be rather grateful for that.

Too much piety could spoil one’s appetite so early in the morning.

It was Garrett who found the letter, filtering through the morning mail as he always did. When he came to one with the Circle’s seal on it, he broke it open immediately, scanning its contents for news.

‘That arrived just this morning, messere,’ Bodahn said, peering helpfully around his side. ‘Seemed _very important_ , if you ask me.’

‘Thank you, Bodahn,’ Garrett said. He waved him off in a distracted fashion, while Anders clenched both hands around the banister and attempted not to _tear it to pieces_ with his bare hands.

‘Does he have it?’ Anders asked. ‘Is it in the letter? No of course it wouldn’t be in the letter, that would be dangerous. He does _have_ it though, doesn’t he, Garrett? This isn’t one of those ‘just writing to say I’ve heard nothing!’ letters, is it? Because if it is, I don’t think I can go on anymore. I’ll simply expire. And you won’t even be able to bury me in my homeland.’

‘Breathe,’ Garrett advised.

‘You aren’t answering my question.’ Anders tore chunks of wood from the railing beneath his fingers. There was too much air in the room. He was probably about to hyperventilate.

‘He has it,’ Garrett confirmed. ‘We can go and pick it up anytime we like.’

Anders drew in an uncertain breath, attempting to regulate the wild beating of his heart. It was a difficult task at the best of times; looking at Garrett made it almost impossible. When they locked eyes, Anders felt as if he’d been kicked square in the chest by Isabela whenever she got a little too excited in a barroom brawl. This was the answer to his dreams—it was what he _needed_ in order to feel right again—but the victory had the nerve to feel bittersweet.

Getting back home to warn his own Garrett of the pitfalls that awaited him was all well and good, but who was going to look out for _this_ Garrett, once Anders left him?

It was Garrett who broke eye contact, while Anders was still thinking. He had no way of knowing what Anders was thinking _about_ , of course, but he had a strange look on his face all the same. Contemplative, and a little sad.

‘Get your coat,’ he suggested. ‘It’s probably better not to leave the amulet lying around too long.’

‘Especially not surrounded by curious Circle mages and templars alike,’ Anders agreed.

‘Boom!’ Sandal piped up ominously, from a corner of the room. He had impeccable timing; Anders had to give him that.

*

‘I don’t believe I learned what, exactly, you needed this particular amulet for, Champion,’ the First Enchanter said as he handed the talisman in question over, wrapped in a simple swatch of burlap, which itself looked a bit muddy from so much travel. Anders tried not to devour it with his eyes, twitching as obviously as Fenris with a sudden surplus of nervous energy. ‘…But, knowing that what you do is so important to the well-being of the city, I shall spare you my idle questions. May it serve you well.’

‘Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite First Enchanter?’ Garrett asked.

‘Because you know so many,’ the First Enchanter replied. ‘I…thank you, for the compliment. Go, Champion—and do what you must with it.’

Garrett winked. ‘And tell no one where I got it should they ask, of course.’

The First Enchanter bowed his head. ‘Just remember: It was you who said it, and not me.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon enough,’ Garrett promised, holding the door open for Anders, the amulet having disappeared into one of his many belt-packs. ‘Next time there’s a life-threatening crisis in Kirkwall. So…probably on Tuesday.’

‘I look forward to it,’ the First Enchanter said.

They moved quickly though the Gallows, jiggled nervously on the boat, practically bolted through the docks, raced one another up the steps to Hightown, and arrived in Garrett’s estate completely out of breath; it really was a miracle from the Maker they hadn’t expired from so much exercise before ever getting a chance to test Anders’s brilliant theory, or even _see_ the actual amulet.

After some much-needed refreshments provided by the ever thoughtful Bodahn, and a commentary of ‘You look funny’ from the ever insightful Sandal, they made their way into the study, locking the dog out just in case, and Garrett unwrapped the amulet, setting it on the desk.

‘That’s it?’ Anders asked.

‘That’s it,’ Garrett replied.

Anders leaned closer, not yet daring to touch it. It certainly wasn’t emanating arcane energy; it was also a lot smaller than he’d imagined it would be. But perhaps he’d built it up a little too much in his mind’s eye while he was waiting for it to come. ‘It’s… Well, it’s rather ugly, isn’t it?’

‘You’re welcome,’ Garrett said.

‘A _lovely_ ugly gift,’ Anders replied.

Tentatively, he reached forward, fingers stopping just before they rested upon the smooth, domed face of the main carving. It really _didn’t_ look like anything special, but Anders knew in his heart of hearts that this was it—because if it wasn’t, he was out of options, and he refused to accept that. Stubbornness had served him well; it got him out of the Circle, and into the Wardens, and out of the Wardens again, and into Garrett’s life, and that wasn’t too shabby.

‘What is it?’ Garrett asked.

‘Just…giving the moment the gravity it deserves,’ Anders lied. ‘If not me, who else shall—oh, Andraste’s sacred bosom, what _am_ I doing? There,’ he added, landing his palm against the surface of the amulet. Nothing happened, not that Anders had _really_ expected it to right away.

The wood was cool to the touch, even a little bit damp, but it didn’t give him a shock or a thrill, nor were there sparks or ominous claps of thunder.

Anders was so disappointed. Why couldn’t life _ever_ be just a _little_ bit as predictably exciting as it was in fiction?

‘Was something supposed to happen?’ Garrett asked.

‘I’ll just put it on first, shall I?’ Anders said.

*

Anders did put the amulet on, allowing himself to get accustomed to the weight of it around his neck, resting round and heavy over the center of his chest. It was still cool, damp wood. Nothing in particular happened, aside from Anders was now wearing a brand new, iconoclastic accessory, making him even more of a mark for Kirkwall’s over-zealous templar population.

Then, Anders tried tying it to his belt, rubbing it between his hands, warming it over the fire—without actually lighting it on fire in the process; that seemed key—and placing it directly over his heart. He had Garrett hold onto it while he held onto it; he murmured a few words in foreign tongue, Arcanum for _please work_ and _I hate you_ and _I will light a thousand candles if you just send me back home._ It all sounded impressive and spell-like, and Anders even managed to focus _all_ his concentration on the single, deep, presiding wish to _go home, I want to go home_ , but still nothing happened, and Anders did his best not to cry.

Grown men crying were always so embarrassing. Grown women crying were bad, too, but Anders wasn’t one of them, so it always hit less close to home. Anyway, he didn’t want to cry in front of Garrett.

‘Maybe I need to wear it for a while,’ Anders suggested, sitting on the floor in the middle of the study. Garrett was sitting opposite him, the amulet between them, part of attempt number sixty-two to make the blighted thing work or do something or really be anything more than a hideous piece of jewelry.

‘Maybe there _was_ a time limit,’ Garrett said.

‘Don’t say that,’ Anders warned him.

‘Why, because I’ll make it true?’ Garrett cocked his head to the side. He seemed very nonchalant for someone who might soon have to accept the fact that his lover was lost to him forever. ‘How about this: Maybe it _will_ make you go home. What if _that_ comes true? Oh, wait—it didn’t. Imagine that.’

‘Your attitude isn’t helping right now, Garrett,’ Anders said. It all came out as one big long angry word. If words could have been weapons, Anders’s sentence would would’ve been slapping Garrett in the face, over and over again.

‘No,’ Garrett agreed, ‘but it’s making me feel just a little bit better.’

‘I’m sure this is just—to be expected,’ Anders said. ‘These things are always tricky. Ancient talismans of mystic power never work when they’re supposed to. There’s all sorts of…of ritual involved. You need to make them feel special, like they’re the only ancient talisman of mystic power for you.’

‘Shall we take it out to supper?’ Garrett asked. ‘Buy it an amulet of its own?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t be so funny,’ Anders told him, suppressing a giggle of raw desperation.

‘It would have to be a very _small_ amulet,’ Garrett continued. ‘Maybe we could ask First Enchanter Orsino to find us one.’

Anders snatched the amulet up and secured it back around his throat, then tucked it carefully underneath the collar of his coat, hidden beneath all the feathers, right against his skin. ‘It’s from Tevinter,’ he insisted. ‘It’s probably used to places of great ritual importance. It needs the right setting, the right _ambiance_. Have you been to any places of great ritual importance lately, Garrett?’

‘Oh, only a few,’ Garrett said, ‘here and there.’

*

They left that afternoon for Sundermount, Merrill and Fenris in tow. Somehow, Garrett had failed to mention that there was an entire clan of Dalish elves currently making camp at the base of the mountain. Anders stuck closely to him as they passed through; he couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised when the Keeper herself offered an _andaran atish’an_ to Garrett. Of _course_ the Champion of Kirkwall would be on speaking terms with his very own Dalish Keeper.

He had so many strange things to tell his own Garrett when he finally returned. So many things that even Anders himself found difficult to believe, and he was living them.

The polished wood of the amulet felt heavy as a chain around his neck as they climbed the paths of Sundermount, treading carefully all the way. Merrill lead them all through a dank cave that smelled of moldering corpses and was filled to the teeth with spiders; Fenris cut angrily through their webbing as Garrett dealt out damage with his daggers, Merrill in the back hurling invigorating nature spells. Anders found himself watching in awe at how well they worked together. The people Garrett had gathered acted—at least in battle—like they were all limbs of the same body. They had _incredible_ battle synergy. Anders’s was impressed, but he was distracted when a decidedly _monstrous_ spider crawled out of its nest and attempted to bite his head off.

Wouldn’t that just beat all—to have finally obtained the amulet, only to die a cruel and untimely death, headless in a Sundermount cavern? The sad part was, it was exactly how Anders’s life tended to work.

‘On your left!’ Garrett hollered, then vanished in a cloud of smoke. When he reappeared, he was at Anders’s side, both daggers buried hilt-deep in the spider’s squishy, grape-like eyes.

Anders gagged, then blasted the creature back with a fireball. ‘My hero.’

‘ _Pfaugh,_ ’ Fenris said, from somewhere over his shoulder.

After the spiders, they managed to make it out of the cave without further incident. Merrill led them through a mountain graveyard, then forced them all to linger as she stopped to say a prayer to Mythal.

‘I just love organized religion,’ Anders said, voice full of false cheer. The chilly, dank winds swirled around them, clouds knit gray and wet above the topmost peaks. ‘Don’t you, Garrett?’

Fenris snorted, but refrained from saying anything. Merrill continued her appeal, pretending she hadn’t heard him. For a moment it was all very much like being in the Wardens, with people reacting _around_ Anders, but never _to_ him. Then again, his misgivings could just as easily have been caused by the creepy graveyard.

There was something not quite _right_ about Sundermount. It wasn’t exactly the same as the Blackmarsh, but it offered that same _kind_ of feeling: like there was old, dark magic all around, leeching from the stones and steeping in the soil.

Despite what Anders had initially believed, they hadn’t reached the summit of Sundermount just yet. In fact, they weren’t even near it. The path _continued_ up the mountain, disappearing into the spiky crags. Anders did his best to concentrate on Garrett’s back just ahead of him, his strong shoulders and his even gait. To his left, Fenris was loping comfortably, and even little Merrill didn’t seem particularly out of breath.

Of course she wasn’t. Dalish women regularly transformed into wolves and ran through the woods to strengthen their stamina. Merrill had probably run up and down the breadth of Sundermount every morning when she was little, then settled down at noon for a horrific blood ritual honoring her ancestors.

Garrett assured him that they were near the top when they rounded yet _another_ corner, this one with stone steps cut into the earth, and heard Anders wheezing.

‘You know,’ Anders panted, ‘if we had a giant _rock_ to push up this hill, it would perfectly sum up my life.’

Merrill gasped, then let out a delighted giggle. ‘That’s just what you said before, too!’

‘Wonderful,’ Anders said. ‘I don’t know whether that means I’m becoming more like him, or if he was more like _me,_ once upon a time.’

‘It’s both,’ Garrett said. Then he glanced at Anders, clearing his throat. ‘…And it doesn’t matter. Let’s just get to the top, shall we?’

According to Merrill, there had once been a dragon at the peak of Sundermount. Garrett had taken care of that, to no one’s surprise. Now it was just a windswept summit, with an eerie cave to one side, and a large stone marker to indicate that this was, indeed, Sundermount’s highest point. Anders could _feel_ the arcane energy in the air. Even Fenris had to admit that it was known as far as the Imperium.

Was it possible that the first place they’d chosen would be the right spot? As always, Anders didn’t want to hope. But he was aware that everyone was staring at him, and he wondered if he hadn’t spoken too soon about the aforementioned giant rock. Because there it was, hanging right around his neck.

‘Well!’ Anders said loudly, startling Fenris into jerking his neck. ‘In for a copper, in for a sovereign, _I_ always say.’

‘That’s how you always lose at cards,’ Garrett said, but his voice was soft and fond.

Anders closed his eyes and focused hard on that sound. _Garrett,_ he thought. _I want to go home to my Garrett. And my bed, and my socks, and my cat._ Back to a life where neither Carver nor Leandra were dead, and where Varric thought he was no more than Garrett’s funny friend, not a pitiable abomination to cluck after. Anders still needed to understand his place in the world, and he couldn’t _do_ that if he wasn’t even in the world he understood.

He wiggled his toes in his boots, and clenched his teeth so hard that he felt the beginnings of a fresh headache coming on. The wind over Sundermount whistled in his ears. Merrill gave a delicate cough. Garrett ground a piece of gravel beneath his boot. Fenris’s neck popped.

Nothing happened.

Anders cracked open one eye, doing his best to swallow down his rising sense of panic. Garrett was watching him with a look on his face like he’d just discovered the secret ingredient in Corff’s mystery stew.

‘Maybe we need to hold hands,’ Anders suggested weakly.

‘Ooh!’ Merrill said, and when everyone whirled to stare at her, she smiled, rather than flinched. ‘Well, I _do_ like the sound of that!’

*

They held hands, Garrett standing between Fenris and his two least favorite abominations, while Anders repeated the entire process. It didn’t work. They did it a few more times before it started to rain, and they had to take shelter under a rocky overpass; Anders took that time to discuss matters with Merrill, asking her if she was _sure_ this was _the_ top of Sundermount and could it possibly have moved recently, without her realizing it? They searched, in the rain, for stone altars of interest, attempting similar faux-rituals over the rotting corpse of the high dragon and its littler dragon baby friends, and Anders even contemplated spilling blood over an altar and the amulet with a few dragon bones thrown in for good measure, before realizing what he was thinking and how unnecessary it was.

‘Bad Anders,’ he said, giving himself a good pinch. ‘Very, _very_ bad Anders.’

‘At least we agree on something,’ Fenris said, and Anders suspected it was a joke—that he had a sense of humor after all—but was too wet and too miserable to appreciate the discovery the way it deserved.

‘All hope isn’t lost yet, you know,’ Merrill said encouragingly, while Garrett stood somewhere in the distance, buffeted by the sheeting rain. She patted Anders on his wet, feathery shoulder. ‘There are _plenty_ such places nearby. We’ve only tried just the one so far—there’s so much more to go!’

Anders’s answering howl of agony was swallowed by the pull of the wind.

*

Merrill wasn’t exaggerating when she’d used the word ‘plenty,’ as Kirkwall was rife with mass graveyards and sites of historically symbolic power. They visited not one, but _three_ abandoned slaving caverns, riddled with tormented spirits and—what else?—more giant spiders; they explored the system of tunnels _beneath_ the City of Chains’ sewers, with which they were already all too intimate, holding hands while Merrill spoke in elvhen, just because it couldn’t hurt to try; they snuck into the abandoned remains of the old qunari compound at night, and Fenris even recited bits and pieces of the Qun in authentic qunari—but since Tevinter was, as a whole, opposed to the qunari and everything about them, _that_ obviously didn’t work, either. They even broke into an abandoned mansion in Hightown that belonged to some of Sebastian’s old friends, the Harimanns; under the estate was apparently some sort of ceremonial chamber, which included a pile of skulls, and Anders would have found the whole thing hilarious if he wasn’t so busy losing the last, scrappy remains of his optimism in the process.

‘Well,’ Anders said, nudging a skull with the tip of his boot, then recoiling in disgust when he realized he was toeing someone’s eye socket, ‘at least no one can say this hasn’t been fun.’

‘We’re missing something,’ Merrill murmured, tapping the line of _vallaslin_ on her chin. ‘Spells can be _very_ particular, you know. We might have to do it all again, but maybe without bathing, or after proper fasting, or wearing no shirts.’

‘I don’t,’ Anders said. ‘I just—I can’t—’

There were so many things he _could_ have said, so many things he wanted to say, so many ways he could have laughed or cried or done both at the same time, but he was finally out of energy, finally out of words. Garrett patted him on the back, standing too close—but just close enough that Anders could draw physical comfort from his presence, his warmth.

It would have been a nice moment, but then Anders looked down, and saw two hollow eyes staring back up at him.

‘Augh!’ Anders said, kicking the skull deep into the dark tunnel before him, where it shattered some few moments later against a distant wall.

‘But we might have needed that skull!’ Merrill cried.

‘All right, Anders,’ Garrett said. ‘It’s been a long day. Let’s all just…go to the Hanged Man, have a few drinks, and contemplate where to go from here in the morning. When all the _shades_ aren’t still so near.’

‘Even being drunk won’t help me now,’ Anders mourned, but he went along with the plan anyway, because he didn’t want to be left alone in the basement of the Harimann’s estate, what with all the haunted piles of bones.

*

Everyone was at the Hanged Man, save for the elusive Sebastian, who was off somewhere happily praying, and Anders wondered if it would make a difference—if he, too, could convert, in order to live a life of peace and chastity, lacking all this excitement. Then he realized that was just as crazy as the blood magic idea he’d had up on Sundermount, and settled in with the others to get absolutely sodding drunk. _So you don’t know which down is up,_ Oghren used to say, then laugh until he passed out.

‘I can’t believe you all held hands,’ Isabela said, already well on her way to that state herself. ‘Why wasn’t _I_ there? I _like_ holding hands.’

‘Do you, Rivaini?’ Varric asked casually. ‘’Cause the way I hear it is, you like holding other stuff better.’

‘Well it’s not as though the two are mutually exclusive,’ Isabela replied. ‘Maybe there’s too much hand-holding over this little made-up ceremony and not enough holding of the _other stuff._ Which reminds me—have you ever thought about getting naked, Anders?’

‘I think about getting naked all the time, I’ll have you know,’ Anders informed her, staring bleakly down into the dregs of his drink.

Isabela giggled. ‘ _No,_ silly. Although that’s good to know. But what I meant is—I mean, I’m no _expert_ on all these _rituals_ , but I can tell you how we used to do them back at the Pearl.’

‘Very relevant, Isabela,’ Garrett said.

‘It _is_ ,’ Isabela insisted. ‘Being naked never hurt anyone. It’s not like there’s any high dragons left up on Sundermount to burn your bits off, are there? And it’s all so _primal_ , just getting down and dirty in the grass and the mud with the spells on your lips… What was I saying again? I seem to have gotten… _distracted_.’

Anders took a liberal pull of his whiskey. ‘Sometimes I wish _Isabela_ was the Maker,’ he said. ‘If she’d come up with all the rules we’d be so much…so much _happier._ ’

Isabela nodded. ‘It’s true. But I’d never want all that pressure. People can worship me if they want—I’ve no problem with that, don’t get me wrong. But once they try to organize it, start doing it because they feel they _have_ to and not because they _want_ to, it ruins all the fun.’

‘Naked rituals _are_ more fun,’ Anders confirmed. ‘We used to have them in the Circle after lights out. Everyone would gather at the top of the tower beneath the full moon, and we’d all take off all our robes, and—’

‘That’s enough,’ Garrett said, a little too sharply.

‘Oh, _boo,_ ’ Isabela said, leaning back in her chair. ‘He was just getting to the good part.’

‘An unnecessarily indulgent speculation,’ Aveline said.

‘I’ll fill in all the sordid details for you when the next chapter of _Cozy by Calenhad_ comes out,’ Varric promised. ‘Don’t you worry, Rivaini.’

Anders stole a look at Garrett across the table, somewhat wounded by the interruption. He’d only been joking, after all. Same thing he always did. Garrett wasn’t the most playful of their companions, but he’d never been this stern or outright dismissive. Anders had the sneaking suspicion he knew what was causing it. If he was right, the smart thing to do would be to leave it alone. But Anders had never been particularly _good_ at doing the smart thing.

Anders pulled at a stray thread until it unraveled the whole scarf, just like a cat. A cat that then ate the yarn, then threw up.

‘You know,’ Anders began boldly, ‘Isabela might just have a point. If you consider the way I came into this world—what we were in the _midst_ of—’

Garrett colored, burying his nose in his tankard of ale. ‘That’s not—a good plan, Anders.’

‘It couldn’t be worse than all the hand-holding,’ Anders insisted.

This time, Garrett was firmer. ‘ _No._ ’

Only one word, but Anders felt it all the same. He tried to tell himself it was what he’d known all along—that Garrett wanted nothing to do with him in a physical sense, and he hadn’t since their furtive attempt some days ago—but there was something about hearing it in front of an entire audience that felt utterly humiliating.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Anders knew, especially with so much experience, that there was no point in letting his feelings get hurt over a slight here or a brush-off there. Still, it never felt good to hear that someone didn’t want to sleep with you. It was rather a blow to Anders’s ego, and unlike _other_ parts of his anatomy, he often exaggerated its size to begin with.

He drummed his fingers against the table, staring miserably at the rim of his cup. There was a smear of something dark and mysterious just above the handle. It looked a bit like black tar from the docks. One of Corff’s secret ingredients, perhaps?

‘It’s gone all quiet,’ Merrill said, looking around in worry. ‘Was it something I said? Or…I haven’t been talking at all. Was I supposed to say something?’

Varric cleared his throat, in a well-intentioned effort at clearing the air. Anders made an effort to catch Garrett’s eye, but the infuriating man was studiously avoiding his gaze. On his other side, Aveline rolled her eyes.

‘Don’t you have anything more substantial to talk about than other peoples’ private lives, Isabela?’ she asked.

‘More substantial, maybe,’ Isabela admitted, with a shrug. ‘But _hardly_ more interesting.’

‘I think I’ll get some air,’ Anders said, pushing his chair back. He stood somewhat suddenly; the room spun, blurring as he braced his hands against the table. He knew it was petty, but he no longer wanted to be sitting at a table with friends who didn’t like him, and a lover who wouldn’t even _joke_ about sleeping with him. And none of the aforementioned parties were even _his_ to begin with.

It was all too lonely. Even for Anders, who cultivated loneliness as a proper lifestyle.

‘Blondie,’ Varric said.

‘Fresh air _and_ a piss,’ Anders clarified. ‘I’d like my privacy, if you wouldn’t mind. Although if Garrett’s not careful, I’m sure to take you up on that someday, Varric. You saucy master of seduction, you.’

‘Amazing how you managed to get all that out without expelling vomit onto your own boots,’ Fenris commented.

‘It’s a talent!’ Anders announced, bowing low. That too was a mistake, as it made all the blood rush to his head. He staggered upright again, then offered Garrett a two-fingered salute. He seemed very intent on the table in front of him, however, and didn’t look up.

That was fine. Everything was fine. Anders was drunk, and no one wanted him, and he was probably going to be stuck in this stupid world for the rest of his _very-short-if-the-templars-had-anything-to-say-about-it_ life.

He pushed open the doors to the Hanged Man, stumbling out into the back-alley. If he was really going to be trapped here in this alternate Kirkwall, he might as well get used to wandering the streets like the pathetic sod he always was.

*

An indeterminate amount of time passed before Anders realized that wandering around in the dark from hex to hex in the middle of Lowtown probably wasn’t the smartest decision he’d made. It had been a _very_ impressive storm-out, but the aftermath left something to be desired. Especially because no one had actually come after him,

Lowtown after dark was its own particular brand of savory. There were prostitutes and guardsmen patrolling the streets—all of them looking for a bit of action, in their own way—and roving gangs who seemed to lurk exclusively in shadowy corners like the foundry district. Anders was just lucky he projected the look of a scruffy refugee without a copper to his name so _very_ well. The raiders mostly left him alone, though he could hear their dogs in the alleys, howling for meat.

When he rounded the corner into the next hex, there was a woman struggling to light the lantern above her door. Anders attempted to walk right past her, but instead found himself lingering. He wasn’t a helpful person by nature—not when it came to his friends _or_ strangers—but there was something about spending time with Garrett that made a person start to pay attention when someone needed aid nearby.

He was a _life ruiner,_ that’s what Garrett was. Not Champion of Kirkwall at all.

‘Here,’ Anders said, pretending to fumble with an imaginary piece of flint, and caught the wick with a well-timed, very minor fire-spell. He felt heat on his face, light blooming within the paper lantern, and the small flicker of self-satisfaction that came with a job well done.

Trust him to make even the most generous of actions all about his own gratification, but there it was.

‘ _Thank_ you, messere,’ the woman said, turning to him. Even that was nice—just having someone appreciate his efforts, small as they were, and ultimately pointless. Then, she froze where she was, hand clutched in her skirts. ‘It’s you…!’

‘No it isn’t,’ Anders replied, reflexively. When people recognized him, it generally wasn’t a good thing. It’d be just his luck if he’d run into the wife of a templar, and was brought in to the Gallows—not even _his_ Gallows!—as reward for his random act of kindness. Garrett wasn’t even here to save him. He didn’t even have _Varric._

‘Yes,’ the woman insisted. ‘Yes, it is.’ She drew closer, her expression completely hidden by shadows. Anders’s first instinct was to recoil on principle—his personal space was oh-so-important to him—and he did just that, preparing himself to freeze her mouth shut if need be so he could, of course, run away. ‘I’d recognize your face anywhere.’ Then, in a pointed whisper, she said, ‘You helped my sister’s boy—Cornelius; Corny, I always called him—but never mind all that. You probably don’t even remember him. What’re you doing out here, all alone? Don’t you know how much these people need you in one piece?’

Numbly, Anders shook his head. ‘I… _I_ did that?’ he asked.

The woman laughed a little at him; she had every right to. ‘Maker, I’m sure with all the folk you help, you forget a few names here and there.’ She wiped her hands on her apron, taking a step back. She was looking at him, Anders realized, the same way a proud mother observed her own child before sending him off to lessons or the marketplace, with the same calculated reverence, the same warmth and delight. Anders shifted under the brunt of the attention, naturally inclined to lean closer to it, wanting to soak up as much of it as he could before it all just went away. ‘Don’t you get yourself in trouble with any of the ruffians out this late, you hear me? There’s no reason a man as good as you should be another one of _their_ victims. There’s many who still need you, same as my sister.’

‘I…do my best,’ Anders managed, a strangled sort of quip. ‘Thank you. I mean—you’re welcome.’

‘And now you’re thanking us,’ the woman said, shaking her head. ‘Will the wonders of Thedas never cease?’

‘I’m lead to believe they never do,’ Anders told her, and shyly took his leave.

It was better not to let the conversation last—to ruin what good reputation Other Anders _had_ managed to cultivate. Apparently it wasn’t all enemies and people sick of hearing him rant about the mages. There were times when—unlike Anders-Anders—he actually did what he talked about doing, and saved people. Mages, young ones, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, who needed his help just as he’d needed help, once, even if he’d never gotten it.

Anders stumbled around a narrow corner, leaning against a damp wall, head resting against his forearm. It was necessary for him now to admit there was just the slightest possibility _he’d_ been the one sent _here_ to understand _his_ Garrett’s points—that Anders was flighty, that he should take at least one thing other than his own comfort a little more seriously, that there were issues in Thedas worth fighting for, and all that rubbish.

In fact, Other Anders might have gotten a few things right after all. Not everything—the abomination part could definitely go—but a _few_. More than Anders ever had, certainly.

He’d made some unwise bargains, compromised some necessary truths, sacrificed his own body and life-long morals in the process. He’d gone too far, obviously, but at least he’d taken that risk, and in the end, maybe _that_ was what this Garrett saw in him, and the reason he found Anders so repulsive now. No ideals, no beliefs, no convictions.

‘I _really_ hope that _isn’t_ the conclusion I’m supposed to come to,’ Anders muttered, to no one in particular. He was grateful when there wasn’t any answer—no storm clouds, no sudden bolts of lightning, not even the freezing rain from Sundermount, no indication at all that anyone was listening.

No; Anders was alone in this, and he knew that. There was only Anders to face, only Anders to blame.

If he ever _did_ make it back to his Kirkwall at this rate—and he wasn’t just saying this to get on anybody’s good side—he really _would_ have to start doing something about everything, no matter how daunting the prospect was. He could help mages _without_ giving his body up to a spirit, after all, or open up a thankless clinic in the depths of Darktown. There was a way to begin without taking everything on at once. Small steps for incorrigible wastrels who wanted to be more than they were already without working too hard.

Now _there_ was a self-help guide Varric could pen. He could call it _The Imperium Wasn’t Built In A Day_ , and even the templars would have to love it, because everyone had to start somewhere, didn’t they?

*

Anders knew the way back the Hawke estate so well by now he suspected he’d be following the same path up the long flight of steps in his sleep; his calves were becoming increasingly well-muscled because of all that climbing. Soon he’d be able to walk the paths of Sundermount without getting red and huffy-puffy, thus embarrassing himself in front of all and sundry. _All and Sundermounty,_ he added, then cringed, letting himself in with the extra key Bodahn—and not Garrett—had provided him. That pun could never leave his brain, and was just one of so many reasons why it disturbed him to imagine sharing said brain with anyone else.

Garrett was waiting for him within, standing tensely by the fire. He looked up immediately at the sound of Anders’s boots in the entryway, and Anders allowed himself to believe that there was some concern on his face. ‘You’re back.’

‘I do live here,’ Anders said. ‘At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I can understand why you might be having second thoughts about the arrangement _now,_ since you’ve had some time to really get to know me. That’s always my downfall. I’m so much better in small doses. Like Corff’s whiskey. Or the Hanged Man in general, actually. And that Fenris fellow.’

‘Anders,’ Garrett interjected.

‘…Probably some of the others, too,’ Anders muttered, crossing his arms rebelliously. He eyed the carpet, the hearth, the mantelpiece over it. Anything to keep from looking at Garrett.

‘That’s not what I—’ Garrett began, then fell silent with a huff. Anders chanced a sneaky glance upward, but to his great disappointment, Garrett was looking at the dwarves instead of him. ‘Maybe we should talk about this upstairs.’

‘You’re sure you can stand to be alone in a room with me?’ Anders asked.

Garrett turned and started climbing the stairs in reply. Infuriatingly, that left the decision up to Anders: he could follow him, or stand downstairs feeling awkward and stared-at by dwarves. He knew which choice felt more natural, but the memory of that woman and what Other Anders had done for her still had him feeling off-kilter. Very few people had ever looked at Anders like that before in his lifetime—like he really meant something. And here, apparently, there was a whole city full of people who believed that, secreted away in the hidden places of Kirkwall. They admired him; they _loved_ him.

Love was dangerous. Once Anders had even a little, he always found himself wanting more.

Yet he didn’t want to become an abomination just to be a more worthy man. Anders could _be_ a better person, all on his own, the same way other people became better people. With hard work, hopefully not _too_ hard. But he didn’t need Justice inside of him to do it.

Of course, there was saying that, and there was actually proving it. Garrett had already disappeared up the stairs, and Anders was still standing frozen in the entry hall. Slowly, he pushed himself to follow. It went against every natural instinct Anders had to approach a potentially awkward situation instead of running from it full-tilt, but he had to start _somewhere._

It wasn’t exactly performing daring acts of heroism and rescuing mages from a fate worse than death, but Garrett could _sometimes_ be just as hard to face as a templar was.

At the very least, he was equally difficult to look in the eye.

The man in question was sitting on the end of the bed in the master bedroom, elbows braced against his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. He looked like someone in the throes of bitter defeat, and the sight of him wrung Anders’s heart. That wasn’t _at all_ how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be feeling sorry for himself, and indignant over the way Garrett had treated him. His heart wasn’t even Garrett’s to wring in the first place.

And yet…

 _And yet,_ Isabela’s words came back to him. As much as Garrett seemed bent on dismissing the thought altogether, Anders’s memories of his arrival in this world were as stark as a brand on his skin. They’d been naked as jaybirds and going at it like animals. It was the one thing they hadn’t tried yet—something they’d come _close_ to doing, but Garrett had run away before either of them could get their clothes off. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like all that crazy of an idea.

Anders liked to think that maybe he was just _slightly_ more worthy of the experience now, too. It wouldn’t have been right to take Other Anders’s place without understanding him—while still thinking he was just a raving lunatic with no sense of priorities or decency whatsoever. But he was just a _little_ able to grasp more of what his predecessor had been thinking. He wasn’t selfish, but self _less,_ which made him an equally hard man to love, but neither inherently worse nor inherently better than Anders himself.

‘I feel…scrutinized,’ Garrett commented, from the bed.

‘Oh, no,’ Anders said, coming forward at last. He made a point of closing the door behind him; whether Garrett noticed or not, he didn’t protest. ‘I don’t have the attention span _nor_ the energy for a good scrutinizing. You’d have to get me up really early in the morning for that! Except don’t, because I’m not a morning person, and I’ll get…cranky.’

Garrett tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, smiling ruefully. ‘I was worried, when you walked out. People are always walking out— Anyway, I didn’t know where you’d gone.’

‘Around,’ Anders told him. He waved his hand illustratively, then settled down on the bed next to Garrett. Someone—probably Bodahn—had lit the fire in their room again. It was all quite terribly cozy and romantic. ‘I just needed to clear my head. _You_ know how it is. Except that you probably don’t.’ Tentatively, he brushed his fingers against the side of Garrett’s head, threading through his hair. ‘You always have a clear head.’

‘Aha,’ Garrett chuckled, wearily leaning his head into the touch. ‘You are the funny one, I’ll give you that. Fun and funny.’

‘I told you,’ Anders said. He rubbed his thumb along the shell-curve of Garrett’s ear. ‘…He isn’t as bad as everyone thinks, though. As bad as _I_ thought.’

‘No,’ Garrett said slowly. ‘He isn’t.’

‘I met someone,’ Anders said, by way of explanation. ‘Someone I—someone _he_ helped. She seemed to think he was quite the hero! Just imagine: someone out there thinks _I’m_ a hero. I was a hero at Vigil’s Keep, but I don’t really feel as if that counts, what with none of it being by choice and the siege-walls making it incredibly difficult for me to cut and run.’

‘You wouldn’t have,’ Garrett said.

‘ _He_ wouldn’t have,’ Anders corrected him. He scraped his nails against Garrett’s scalp, moving in slow circles with light pressure. ‘That’s the real difference between us. Not just the scary abomination part.’

‘It isn’t as simple as some people seem to think, no,’ Garrett agreed. He blinked, slow and languid, then focused suddenly, tensing where he sat. ‘Are you… You’re petting me.’

‘I am,’ Anders said. ‘And I’m good at it, too. Because I’ve had a lot of practice with my cat.’

‘Ser Pounce-a-lot.’ Garrett shook his head, while Anders continued to give him a few much-needed scritches against his scalp. ‘I should have known right then not to get involved with anyone who’d name a cat something like _that_. But I was young and foolish, and I thought it was…charming.’

Anders’s hand stilled of its own accord against the back of Garrett’s warm neck. ‘It _is_ charming. Much better than a boring name, like Whiskers or Mittens or Frederick.’

‘Frederick?’ Garrett asked.

‘An awful name for a cat,’ Anders agreed. He let his thumb move in slow, thoughtful circles against the knotted muscles in Garrett’s neck. ‘Almost as bad as _Sebastian,_ really.’

Garrett chuckled, and Anders had the temerity to feel gratified, as if he still needed to prove Garrett liked him better than anyone else.

‘He’s the only person I know who gets _less_ ornery when he’s fasting,’ Garrett admitted, bowing his head to give Anders more to work with. ‘I’ll be happy enough when this week is over. Religious rituals make me uncomfortable—especially in Kirkwall. I’m always afraid…’

‘Something _weird_ might happen?’ Anders quipped, digging his thumb and forefinger in on either side of Garrett’s neck.

‘Yes,’ Garrett admitted. He settled into the caress—into Anders himself, making him feel for a moment as though he wasn’t the perennial interloper. ‘Exactly that.’

‘I really think we need to have sex,’ Anders blurted out, before he could settle too comfortably into the conversation.

Garrett had the decency to look startled, then the decency not to laugh. Up close, Anders could see the wrinkles that lined the corners of his mouth, laugh-lines and worry-lines both; he could see the shadows under Garrett’s eyes and the acceptance in them, too, the very instant when he agreed _internally_ , even if he’d still have to work his way around to saying the words out loud and actually making it real.

‘Why is Isabela always right?’ Garrett said, with no small amount of wonder. ‘I ask myself this question more often than you’d think—so often you’d also think I’d actually learn to agree with all her plans right from the start. Except the time when she took off with the Tome of Koslun and started a bit of a riot and accidentally made me Champion, in a roundabout sort of way—so I suppose ‘always’ isn’t really the proper word after all. More like mostly, which is still too much, in my opinion.’

‘I’m glad she wasn’t right about using Aveline on me as a battering ram,’ Anders said. ‘Because that would have hurt, _and_ it wouldn’t have gotten us anywhere, _and_ I’d still have to suggest this course of action with a few cracked ribs. Not very pleasant, let me tell you.’

‘I’d be gentle,’ Garrett promised him, which was as much a confirmation as anything.

Now it was Anders’s turn to worry at his lower lip. To say all this was a surreal culmination in one of the more surreal moments of his very eventful, very surreal life was a vast understatement. Being made a Grey Warden by accident; meeting talking darkspawn in the Deep Roads; even becoming a hero at Vigil’s Keep when all he wanted to do at the time was cut ties and run—it paled in comparison to this.

‘You’ve no one but yourself to blame,’ Anders said. ‘You’re the one who got me this infernal thing in the first place.’

Garrett almost laughed; he ducked his head and Anders rubbed his shoulder, trying to be comforting while at the same time wishing someone would comfort him instead. ‘I’ll never give a gift again, I swear,’ Garrett promised. ‘Although it might be nice to meet, say, another Isabela. What if she was a very proper princess— _no_ , what if there’s an Aveline out there who lets her hair down? Or a Varric with a beard?’

‘Now, Garrett,’ Anders warned, ‘magic can only do so much. Those last two are just ridiculous.’

This time, Garrett did laugh. He steadied himself against one of Anders’s arms; Anders had never been in this position of being _the strong one_ , and he didn’t much like it when he thought of it that way. But if he was going to start changing for the better, then starting now was really the only option. Starting later had been his modus operandi for his life thus far, and look where that had gotten him.

Anders fiddled with the amulet, still around his neck, freeing it to the firelight by undoing the clasps at his collar. The feather pauldrons came off first, before he moved on to the large, brass buckles of his jacket; he was skilled at this undressing himself one-handed thing, having had so much practice, but this time he wasn’t in a rush, on the run, fleeing something and looking for quick confirmation, physical comfort, a reminder of all the reasons why he wanted freedom in the first place. He took his time, with Garrett’s head resting against his shoulder, Garrett’s hands questing over his sides and his chest.

‘Don’t worry,’ Anders said, pausing to pat at the small of Garrett’s back.

‘I’m not worried,’ Garrett replied.

‘You seem worried,’ Anders told him. ‘Maybe you should work on that.’ He stopped what he was doing to untie the laces at the front of Garrett’s jerkin instead. The leather smelled of sawdust and sweat, and a stain that must have been from Corff’s brew. Anders breathed in deeply, pressing his face against Garrett’s chest; there was more ceremony, more ritual, in this single act than anyone could have found in all of Sundermount. ‘Who knows? Maybe, when all this is done, you won’t even remember it.’

‘Does that mean it won’t have happened?’ Garrett asked lightly, breath hitching in his throat. Anders’s fingers paused at his stomach, inching a bunched handful of soft cotton up over flinching skin.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Anders said. ‘If you make me think about this, I’m going to have to call it all off because I’ve come down with a terrible headache.’

‘Perish the thought,’ Garrett replied.

‘The sort of thing Varric never includes in his stories,’ Anders agreed. ‘Because it would ruin the mood, _and_ destroy the pacing.’

Garrett rested his palm against Anders’s cheek, callused thumb against coarse stubble. There was something pinched in his expression, like that first morning, on their way through Hightown underneath so much bright sunlight. Garrett had still thought Anders was his Anders then; he’d been frustrated, suffering, terminally fond. And now, Anders had inspired the same sort of expression. Even after he was gone, it would be his to keep.

Whatever made Garrett more comfortable—whatever didn’t make him feel as though he was betraying someone he loved. Anders felt completely selfless, without losing his sense of self in the first place.

So it _was_ possible.

Heart pounding, he moved forward, amulet swinging between them, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Garrett’s jaw.

To his surprise, it was Garrett who gave ground. He lay back against the bed, and drew Anders with him. His hands found their way beneath Anders’s clothes, callused and warm, and _this_ time there was no hesitation in his touch as he peeled away what few layers remained. Anders allowed him what he needed, the ability to set the pace, to feel as though he had _some_ measure of control in this world where one lover could be switched out for another without so much as a by-your-leave. He braced his weight above Garrett’s body, trembling at every brush of his hands. Anders could feel Garrett’s enthusiasm through the pads of his fingers, seeping warm into his skin. He’d wanted this just as badly as Anders all along, the wretch. Garrett always _had_ been gifted with a better face for cards.

Privately, Anders thought it had something to do with the beard.

‘You can look at me, you know,’ Garrett said. Anders hadn’t even realized he wasn’t.

When Anders lifted his eyes—meeting Garrett’s gaze just once—he felt stripped bare, down to the very raw essence of who _Anders_ was.

A man from the Anderfels with only a pillow and a cat to his name; an abomination who saved mages and wrote manifestos in his spare time. Garrett loved him—both for who he was and who he wasn’t, who he had been and who he _could_ be.

Normally, that kind of realization could be a total mood-killer. In this instance, it warmed Anders down to his bones. His amulet fell against Garrett’s chest; Garrett reached up to tug loose the leather tie that held Anders’s hair in place. Anders shook it out gladly, feeling it tickle against the back of his neck. It occurred to him, as their bodies finally met, an unabashed ripple of desire coursing through him at the feel of that answering heat between Garrett’s legs, that Garrett was staring. It wasn’t a look of wonder or awe, and there was no tension or fear in it either—like he was forcing himself through this, waiting for Anders to disappear at any moment. There was simply fondness there: tolerance; affection; _love_. Anders hadn’t ever seen it this close before.

He rolled them over, switching positions to hide his face in the crook of Garrett’s shoulder.

It was all too much, too fast. He couldn’t be expected to change in one night. He could feel his heartbeat hammering against Garrett’s bare chest, trapped beneath hot skin and hard muscle.

‘Kiss me,’ Garrett suggested. Anders felt the words vibrate through his body.

He was only too happy to comply. Their lips met. The pull and shift of muscle in Garrett’s back was warm and grounding beneath Anders’s hands, and he held on there, held on for dear life.

He’d thought it might feel like taking someone else’s place, and in a way, it was. But Anders had been doing that all along. He supposed he’d needed this, more than anything—to see what it was like to walk through life in another man’s boots for a while, and now, what it was like to kick out of them.

He couldn’t imagine what Garrett was thinking, but his hands were nothing more than gentle. They spread Anders’s legs, and stroked the quickening pulse in his dick, and Anders scrabbled down the length of his spine, gripping his hips. Whatever rhythm they found wasn’t meant to remind them of anything—or anyone—else. Anders bent his legs, lifting his hips to meet the tip of Garrett’s erection. He couldn’t think about whether this was normal, whether it was par for the course. All he could _really_ do was try and make himself an equal to Garrett here—someone worthy of the look he saw in Garrett’s eyes whenever they flashed Anders’s way.

All the while, Anders could hear his heartbeat in his wrists, matched only by the pulse in Garrett’s chest, pushed so close against his own.

When he came, thank the Maker, there were no resounding claps of thunder, and no glowing spirit portals opened up next to the bed. A chasm didn’t appear right there in the floor of Garrett’s bedroom to suck Anders back to his proper place in another world. Neither of them heard a booming, all-powerful voice that congratulated them on their efforts and a lesson well-learned, shepherding Anders back home. There was none of the opposite, either, sulfur and brimstone and demons.

In fact, Anders had no way of knowing whether the ritual had worked at all. At the very least, they could agree they’d made some good memories for themselves—ones that would stick in Anders’s mind even _more_ than a disembodied voice, or a cataclysmic spiritual event.

‘Do you think…?’ Anders asked, voice sleepy, muzzy, muffled against the freckles at Garrett’s shoulder.

He shrugged in answer, fingers still atop Anders’s knee.

It was a far cry from flying off the peak of Sundermount on the back of a dragon, or leading an army of animated skeletons through Hightown, or any of the other things Anders had imagined while visiting the sites of great arcane power. Anders told himself he was waiting for a sign from the amulet as he lay against Garrett’s naked body, listening to his breaths as they evened out, dry lips pressed to Anders’s collar-bone. He fell asleep that way; Anders followed soon enough afterward, heartbeat loud in his ears and one arm looped around Garrett’s sweaty back.

*

It was dark when Anders woke, and he felt rather disoriented before he realized he’d shoved his head under the pillow at some point during the night. He rolled over slowly, wincing as his sore muscles protested the sudden movement. Instinctively, he reached for Garrett on the other side of the bed, chuckling at his own foolishness.

‘I believe _some_ mention was made of being gentle,’ he muttered blindly.

His fingers brushed up against soft fur; its owner let out a plaintive mew.

Anders sat bolt upright in bed, sending his pillow flying.

Ser Pounce-a-lot mewed again, this time in protest. He didn’t like sudden, violent movement, and was positively beastly when he wasn’t warned about things first. He toddled over to Anders on the bed and began to knead his thigh through the covers, sharp little claws reminding him of how to be a proper owner.

Anders took in the view. This was _his room,_ or rather, the room Garrett let him stay in after he’d bought the house in Kirkwall. It was rather plain; simple, but cozy. There was a desk in the corner that was _not_ covered in pages and pages of demented scribbling. _His_ boots were beneath the chair, and _his_ staff was leaned up in a corner of the room.

Anders shuddered. He was either going to cry or vomit, and he didn’t particularly feel like doing either in front of Ser Pounce-a-lot. His fingers twisted themselves tightly in the thin blanket over his legs, while Pounce rubbed his cool, wet nose against his whitened knuckles, purring away merrily.

Someone pounded on his door, and Anders did his best to keep his heart from exploding then and there in his chest.

‘Oi, magey!’ Carver shouted through the wood. ‘My brother wants to know if you’re up yet—don’t look at me like that, I’m _checking._ That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Ow! _Ow._ Idiot!’ More banging followed, a sound like the door was going to be thrown off its hinges, the clear and obvious signs of a brotherly scuffle.

All the color drained from Anders’s face. He wanted to throw the covers over his head and hide, but that would probably make Ser Pounce-a-lot even angrier. He wanted to go to the door, but he was still naked _and_ bruised and there were bite marks of a compromising nature on his throat and thighs that he was quite certain he wouldn’t be able to explain away. Not even to Garrett, who understood everything.

There was a quieter knock at the door.

‘Anders?’ Garrett asked politely, if breathlessly. ‘May I come in?’

 _No,_ Anders thought. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know how to talk to his Garrett any more, and he needed something a little more substantial than a blanket between them.

‘I _know_ you didn’t sleep through that,’ Garrett added, when Anders didn’t reply.

‘What if I did?’ Anders called, tentatively. ‘What if I’m still drifting through dreamland, afloat on a cloud of my very own imaginings?’

It wasn’t the unlikeliest thing that had happened to him.

‘I’m coming in,’ Garrett said.

Anders scrambled hurriedly under the covers, pulling them all the way up to his chin as the door swung open.

‘So you _are_ awake,’ Garrett said; Anders saw Carver peering over his shoulder just before Garrett shut the door again, directly in his face. ‘You’ve been sleeping all day—Carver was starting to get worried about you. He cares about you so _very_ much, you know—’

The pounding on the door began again. ‘I heard that, brother!’ Carver shouted, muffled, and Garrett grinned.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ he said. ‘Poor Carver’s just so dreadfully shy.’

‘I’m still sleeping right now, actually,’ Anders informed him, hoping his voice sounded steadier to Garrett than it sounded to him. At least it didn’t seem like Other Anders had shown up here in the interim—where he had gone was another matter, another mystery for another day. Maybe he hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe it had never _really_ been about him. Anders would even have accepted the whole thing was a tortured dream, _if_ the amulet hadn’t still been around his neck, heavy and smooth, half-warm from another man’s body, which was now so very far away. Anders inched his fingers up beneath the blanket, touching its smooth surface, tracing the last ounce off that warmth off its surface. He knew already what it would smell like: warm leather, the soap on Garrett’s skin. ‘I’m sleep-talking with…my eyes open…an old Tevinter trick I learned in the Circle for when I didn’t want to attend boring lessons.’

‘There’s no end to your old Tevinter tricks, it seems,’ Garrett said.

Anders shrugged fondly, while Pounce got caught in the sheets. He still thought he was a kitten sometimes—like owner, like cat, Anders supposed.

Garrett squinted, unfolded his arms, and took a step forward. ‘Interesting bit of jewelry you have there,’ he said, and Anders’s blood ran cold. ‘I haven’t seen it before, have I? It looks almost…’

‘Tevinter-ish?’ Anders asked weakly.

‘Not that I’m an expert on Tevinter artifacts, mind,’ Garrett said. ‘But yes, I was going to say… Have you got a templar death wish all of a sudden, Anders? That vein in Carver’s temple is finally going to burst.’

‘Tell you what,’ Anders said, rearranging the covers protectively around his body, ‘why don’t I get dressed, and we find somewhere nice and comfortable to sit down, and I tell you an incredibly implausible story that may or may not be the truth. What do you say?’

‘Exactly how I wanted to spend my evening,’ Garrett replied. His lips quirked in an old, familiar way, and for a moment Anders was rendered speechless, staring at his mouth. ‘…Still sleeping, Anders?’

‘I’ll meet you in the kitchen just as soon as I’m presentable,’ Anders said quickly, looking even _more_ quickly away.

If he was right, and this madness hadn’t actually been about Other Anders after all, then it was obviously about _him._ Anders was a man who could accept when he needed to learn the occasional hard-earned lesson—especially when that lesson rose up and slapped him clear into another world. The memory of Other Garrett unfurled like a banner in his chest, snapping smartly in the wind. He wondered if he’d always miss him.

Anders had no desire to become an abomination—he didn’t like sharing his _room_ with someone else, much less his mind and body and arguably his soul—but he knew at last what he had to do.

One day, he’d give _his_ Garrett reason to look at him the way another Garrett had looked at another Anders once, in another life so far from this one.

That was a worthy enough goal for any lifetime. So long as it didn’t involve any boring manifestos.

‘Right,’ Garrett said. ‘So I’ll see you in an hour, then?’

‘Or possibly more,’ Anders confirmed.

How well his Garrett knew him.

*

It took Garrett a long time to believe Anders’s story—understandably, he had a lot of questions, and even more misgivings—but he finally accepted it the first night Anders accompanied him through the sewers of Kirkwall, freeing two Fereldan apostates to the Wounded Coast.

‘You _have_ changed,’ Garrett said as they made their way back to Lowtown.

‘Yes,’ Anders confirmed. He could feel the cool weight of the amulet still around his neck. ‘Speaking of change, what do you say to moving to Antiva? I hear it’s quite sunny there, and one is almost _never_ caught up in rare arcane mishaps.’

‘Hmm,’ Garrett said.

‘Trust me,’ Anders told him, ‘you really _don’t_ want to stay in Kirkwall.’


End file.
